


Mr. Gold's Personal Assistant

by cannibalisticshadows



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Boss/Employee Relationship, Debt, Demons, F/M, Fluff, Guessing Games, Human/Monster Romance, Imp Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Interspecies Relationship(s), Librarian Belle, Magic, Magical Realism, Near Death Experiences, Personal Assistant Belle, Prompt Fic, Rating May Change, Regina is Rumple's Surrogate Daughter, Rumbelle - Freeform, Surrogate Children, surrogate children everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9327059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalisticshadows/pseuds/cannibalisticshadows
Summary: In Belle’s world, everyone has a place to belong, to be loved, and to be happy.But reality tells a different story. In reality, there are werewolves, poisonous apples, ogreish businessmen, Facebook, and boyfriend problems. Magic, too, but naturally, it’s not without a priceIn other words, Belle French lives in a modern world where magic is a normal, everyday occurrence. Storybrooke's favorite little librarian gets into an impish deal with none other than the Spinner, aka Mr. Gold. All she must do to regain her freedom is guess his name.Correctly.(Moved from old account!)





	1. Jefferson Makes a Suggestion

When Belle French decided to call up Mr. Gold, to propose a transaction, she didn’t think she _literally_ had to call for Mr. Gold.

Mr. Gold’s business card was simple and pristine; its color was cream-white, and its front had “Mr. Gold” stamped in elegant, bold black letters. But that was it. All it had was just a name. No number, no address; no information. 

Belle scratched her head. Huh. As a librarian, she should know – all business cards should have at least some directions to give in order to pursue a legal deal!

“Mr. Gold…” she whispered to herself, rising up from the front desk of her library. Evening light filtered in through the windows, and the last of Belle’s visitors left for the day. She “farewell”ed the stragglers and shut the door behind them, locking up as the last one exited. The moment the doors closed, and Belle was alone, the brunette collapsed in an exhausted slump against the wood.

Was getting in contact with Mr. Gold really so hard? Belle thought back to earlier, when she was first given the card.

_“Hey, Bluebell, what’s up?” Ruby, her best friend, asked her just hours ago. In the hustle-and-bustle of the day, Belle was up to her normal tasks as Storybrooke’s sole librarian, but today’s Belle didn’t have the typical enthusiasm she normally spent. Apparently, it didn’t go unnoticed, and Ruby just about had it when her friend didn’t greet her as per normal._

_“I’m fine,” Belle said, absentmindedly, as she worked on returning books to the shelves. As she pushed the book cart down the asile with her, Ruby followed her with keen intent on finding out what was wrong._

_“’Fine’?” Ruby echoed, near-glaring. Not at Belle of course – Ruby was loosing her composer over the thought of something bothering Belle. “I didn’t ask if you were fine! I asked what’s up. Now spill, girl.”_

_“Yes, yes, I’ll do that.”_

_“Do what?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Belle.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Belle…”_

_“Mhmm.”_

_“Belle!”_

_Belle dropped a heavy volume in Ruby’s exclaim of her name, near shrieking in surprise as the book lands on her toe. Today, Belle wore her favorite black stilettos, and the poor girl near broke her ankles with the jolt of surprise._

_Throwing a hand to her chest, hurt, Belle looked at Ruby with a tired gape. “Ruby,” she tsks, but her tone is light._

_“Finally!” Ruby said, crossing her arms. The red-haired girl smacked on her cinnamon-flavored gum and pinned the librarian with a single look. Belle knew that look; a scolding was sure to follow. “You’ve been in the clouds all day,” she continued, flipping her hair. “I want deets.”_

_Belle, her heart still racing with adrenaline, let out a sigh too-loud for comfort. Bending down to retreave the volume, she begrudgingly explained. “Papa got another letter from Ogre Loan today… If we can’t pay them back by the end of the week, Papa will be sued.”_

_Ruby balked. “What!?”_

_Belle, standing up, straightened her skirts while simontaniously trying to calm and quiet Ruby down. “It was only a matter of time, Ruby—“_

_“MATTER OF TIME!?” her friend growled, her eyes flashing yellow. “If those big-nosed fuckers try thrashing your poor father for money again, I’ll—!“_

_“Do what, exactly?” interrupted a new party._

_Belle and Ruby looked back to see a man at the end of the asile, making his way toward the girls. It was Jefferson Paige, the town’s eccentric recluse._

_“Sorry, ladies, but I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about Ogre Loan & Co.?”_

_Ruby visibly bristled at Jefferson’s appearance, but Belle patted her friend’s arm in reassurance. Belle knew Jefferson quiet well, actually. The man, despite his reputation, wasn’t all too bad. “And if we were?” Belle softly challenged, her shoulders held straight and her head high; she stood like a solider ready for battle, but spoke softly enough to put an ogre to sleep._

_“I had a little run in with them before, myself,” Jefferson offered, straightening his jacket. “Mr. Gold got me out of it, though. Have you talked to the old Spinner yet?”_

_In the very moment Jefferson verbalized “Mr. Gold”, both girls froze like ice._

_Mr. Gold, or, “The Spinner”, was a legend._

_No one, not child nor elder, was ignorant to Mr. Gold’s legacy. Belle herself grew up on tales of Mr. Gold, and how if she didn’t listen to her elders, Mr. Gold would steal her off into the night. As she got older, Belle thought it only to be an old wives’ tale; everyone else, however, avoided speaking the silly man’s very name!_

_“The Spinner?” Belle echoed, confusion and dumbfoundedness written across her face. She tucked a strand of chocolate hair behind her ear, as if she could scrutinize Jefferson better. “He’s… real?” She’d heard of her friends and acquaintances talk about the Spinner before, but, she was always under the impression that they were fibs just to scare her._

_“Oh yeah! Didn’t you know? You can call him right up and ask for a favor. Runs Contract Gold and everything – oh come now, don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Contract Gold?”_

_“Course we’ve heard of Contract Gold!” Ruby snapped at the man. If it wasn’t for Belle’s comforting hand on her wrist, she’d pounce Mr. Paige then and there. “Just… **he** runs it?”_

_“Yup! The very man we all love and fear!”_

_When Ruby mumbled something about “nobody loves that man”, Belle lowered her gaze and honestly considered it._

_In all the stories Belle and Ruby grew up on, Mr. Gold was a imp who granted wishes; he wasn’t like a fairy, though, but was their very opposite. He demanded a “price”, and that price was never fairly paid for._

_“He can help my father with debts?” Belle asked, desperate all of a sudden._

_Jefferson nodded, taking off his hat. He reached inside and, like a magician, pulled out a card. He handed it to Belle, who warily took it from him. Ruby all but burned the business card with her eyes._

_“He can help with money problems as well as he can help with sticky situation. The Spinner helped me get custody of my daughter as well. If it weren’t for him, my Grace would still be in the system.” Belle blinked up, owlishly, in surprise. She didn’t know Jefferson had to adopt his own daughter._

_The man put his hat back on and gave a flamboyant bow. “Just call out his name, thri—“_

_“Thank you so much, Mr. Paige,” Belle said, smiling broadly. She was so exited— tremors ran down her petite body in little jolts of electricity. New life returned to her once sullen expression, and the librarian Storybrooke all knew and loved steadily returned back to normal as did the jump in her step. Hope was a powerful thing._

_Jefferson cocked his head to the side, paused in mid-speech. He knew he had to say something else to the young woman, but her pearly whites were all visible in her grin, and the hatter quickly forgot what he had to mention regarding Mr. Gold. Shrugging, he paid his farewell and called Grace over from the children’s section, and the two left just after checking out the little girl’s books._

_Ruby turned to her friend with a sharp, nervous stare. “If you call that man, French—“_

_“If anything, he’ll help us! You know the stories as well as I do – The Spinner will do whatever he’s asked as long as a fair price is paid.”_

_“Yes! Like your firstborn or something!”_

_Belle swatted her hand. Nothing could destroy her now happy attitude, and the librarian slipped the card Jefferson gave her into her blouse, tucking it in the cup of her bra. Having it nestled against her breast was a comfort. “Ruby, please. If it’s true that he doesn’t ask for money, I’m sure I can offer the man something of value. Besides, no one is barbaric as to ask for your firstborn—“_

_“But Ella—“_

_“Ashley’s a good story teller,” Belle said, her vigor too strong to be swayed, but mindful enough to know that Ruby’s friend “Ella” was Ashley Boyd’s nickname. “I’m sure that Mr. Gold and I can come to an agreement. Besides, Jefferson himself said he got help from him.”_

_“But Jefferson’s mad as a hatter—“_

_“He is a hatter, Ruby.”_

_“Exactly! That’s proof enough that you shouldn’t go to the Spinner for help. Legend or not, I ain’t trusting him.”_

Belle shook her head, pulling herself from her flashback. Her friend’s warning couldn’t shake the librarian from her joie de vivre, but now, with Mr. Gold’s strange little card, she began to feel this morning’s woe steadily return.

_“You can call him right up and ask for a favor.”_ Belle heard Mr. Paige’s advice in her head again, and looked at Mr. Gold’s card one last time before tucking it back against her breast. She liked puzzles, and this was certainly a puzzle, but she was not in the mood for games when her father was about to be sued for a late loan payment.

TBC


	2. Impish Deals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Gold and Miss French make a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Es War Einmal" is German for Once Upon a Time. No, it is not a real book. Just for effects.

Belle lived in a one-room apartment above the library. It was tiny, but quaint, and it was sufficient for all that a home was suppose to do. 

The living room was average; it had a cherry-wood roll top desk, a 90’s Sony box TV sitting on a dusty stand, a multi-colored floor lamp, a space heater, a side-table, a metal set of shelves holding pictures, knickknacks, and books, and a ratty purple sleeper sofa. In the dinning room, Belle had a round folding table, plastic kitchen chairs, two tacky bar chairs, and another metal set of shelves holding kitchen appliances. The kitchen held food, utensils, and spices. Her bowls, plates, and collection of tea sets where in the dining room. In Belle’s room, she had a shabby navy futon, three wooden shelves that were stuffed with books, a rectangular folding table with a wheelie chair, a wardrobe, and another side-table. Piles of books littered the apartment like rats in New York’s sewers, leaving no empty space free. 

Belle shoved some books off of her sleeper sofa, hastily making room for her father. 

“I’m sorry it’s such a mess in here. I haven’t really had time…” 

“Don’t fret, my girl. As long as I have a pillow to rest my head upon, I’ll be fine.”

Moe French, Belle’s only living relative and parent, had been evicted from his shop and home, Game of Thorns. It was only a matter of time, Belle reminded herself, but her woe did not sway. 

Her father’s debt was $1,809 dollars in amount, and nearly three months late. It wasn’t terrible, Belle knew, but Ogre Loan & Co. was ruthless in business, as well as IOUs. Mr. French needed a few hundred dollars to pay off some over-due bills, and to Belle’s dismay, another few hundred dollars to buy a German fairy-tale book that was nearly three hundred years old; a steal to get, considering, it was old and valuable, just at $900. Belle had had her eye on it for _months_ , and was saving up for it, but her dear old Papa beat her to it – just on time for her birthday.

The very book, _Es War Einmal_ , was sitting in Belle’s roll top desk, protected from her catastrophe of an apartment.

“Got your story book, petal?” her father asked, sitting down on the make-shift bed once Belle pulled it out. Blindly tossing the couch cushions aside, the young librarian scampered to find some pillows. 

“ _Es War Einmal?_ Oh, yes, of course! I love it so much, Papa – but really, it wasn’t worth going into debt!”

The aging man whom she held dear to her heart chuckled tiredly. His watery blue eyes roamed around the room, taking everything in. “For you, my girl, I’d buy the world.”

“Oh, Papa,” Belle whined, but lovingly, and all but ran to her father in tears.

Ogre Loan & Co. was not a company one wished to go into debt with. It was no secret that once someone, an individual or small business, owed something over ten bucks, the very clothes on their backs would be ripped away via law. Moe French owed nearly two thousand dollars, and had passed the due-date to pay them back thrice. Now, his two-bedroom apartment over Game of Thorns, and Game of Thorns itself, was up foreclosure. In fact, it wasn't just Mr. French that was under the ogre's thumb. Several places in Storybrooke were going out of business because of Ogre Loan & Co.. 

With no place left to go, too timid to ask for a third-party’s help, and too prideful to go to a shelter, Mr. French had no choice but to stay with his dear daughter, Isabelle “Belle” French. 

Belle was only too happy to allow her father into her own home. 

As Belle pulled away from the fierce hug with her father, relishing the familiar and comforting scent of his leafy florist cologne, she felt the crinkle of paper at her breast.

 _Oh, my,_ she thought with a blush. Mr. Gold’s card still rested in her blouse, hidden away from the world and kept close to the girl’s heart. It annoyed her, still, that she couldn’t find any information on which to get contact with the once-thought-old-wives’-tale man, but Belle hadn’t remembered to get rid of the card. She’d been working hard the entire week to help her father since that Wednesday Mr. Paige gave her the card. Today was Friday, and Belle hadn’t so much as _showered._

Talk about ew. Walking to the kitchen after handing her father a pillow and a blanket, Belle pulled the card out with a well-earned grimace. _Body odor - gross._

“Oh, Mr. Gold...” she mumbled, sad, as she opened the fridge. Maybe Ruby was right. He was a legend; an old wives’ tale to keep kids from misbehaving. Honestly, what was she thinking? Getting help for her father from a man she had tween fantasies about? For Belle, she was more likely to become Mayor. She began to feel very silly for placing her trust in Jefferson’s white fibs. 

Suddenly, breaking Belle from her thoughts, there was a knock at the door.

Moe grumbled with good humor and stood up, shuffling with his sock-feet to the door. “Expecting anyone particular, petal?”

“Hmm? No, but Gaston comes by some—“

“Speak of the devil,” Moe responded, laughing as he looked through the peephole. “Should I let him in?”

“Sure,” Belle shrugged, her earlier bittersweet joy melting into tiresome annoyance. 

Mr. French opened the door with a deep laugh, greeting his intended son-in-law with a back-slapping hug. “Hello, Mr. French. How are you? Heard what happened to Game of Thorns…”

Belle tuned the men out. She pulled out some turkey slices and mayo, slamming the door shut behind her with her foot. Her powder-blue eyes blazed with a new kind of annoyance with herself, as she began to make sandwiches for her guests. It was no little matter that Belle was upset at Mr. Gold – fantasy or not, she felt a downright fool for having put her hopes up on him! “ _‘Oh, yes, of course I’ll help your father’s case Miss French, for I’m the famous Mr. Gold…’_ Yes, right, better I keep my nose to my books, not fantasies… Bunch of poppycock if you ask me. Mr. Gold _this_ , Mr. Gold _that_. What was I _thinking_?” Belle, furiously scolding herself, angrily spread the mayo on some bread slices, mumbling to herself throughout.

“Poppycock? Dearie, I assure you, I’m _quite_ real!”

Belle dropped her knife with a surprised yelp, looking up with wide, wide blue eyes. 

Before her, sitting at the bar with crossed legs and a surprising amount of grace, sat the most bizarre man. With reptilian eyes and a sharp hooked nose, the man had a stare that competed with a hawk’s: predatory, yet shockingly playful. As startling as breaking glass, the man gave off the most nerve-wracking, high-pitched giggle Belle had ever heard in all of her twenty-one years of life. If that wasn’t enough to send even Gaston, the hulk of a man, into a quaking mess, it was his grayish, olive-oil-green skin. “Looking for me?”

“You!” she exclaimed, not really sure what to do with herself. _This_ was Mr. Gold? A curly haired imp with skin like a crocodile? Dressed to the nines in hard leather?

Mr. Gold’s black and leather frock coat was covered in feathers or spikes, giving the appearance of a poisonous flower; it was something like thorns, or scales, but still hideous and frightening in all its ways. The man arose from the bar and flamboyantly presented himself, smirking mischievously. “Me!” he giggled horribly.

“—we were all laughing, and— HEY! Who are you!?” Gaston, suddenly made aware of the man’s abrupt materialization, ran over to the kitchen and threw himself gallantly across Belle. Belle, more annoyed with Gaston’s over-protectiveness than of the imp, was jostled behind her fiancé’s outstretched arm. 

“Tsk, tsk!” Mr. Gold shook his head, strutting around the kitchen island. Mr. French followed Gaston quickly, paling like a ghost.

“Get out of this house, warlock! You’re not wanted here! Leave with your magic before I call the authorities!” Belle’s father demanded, standing beside Gaston. With the imp’s prowl, the three mortals were backed up to the counters, shivering with fright. Belle, however, was more curious than afraid.

“You heard the man, imp!”

Mr. Gold smirked like the devil; horrible and confident, he was, and Mr. Gold relished in it. His rotting, too-large, crooked teeth were caked with blackened plaque, revolting in a way that anyone with teeth as bad as those should sue their dentist as soon as possible. “That’s no way to treat a guest with only the most honorable intentions, is it?” he tutted, tilting his head side to side like a dancing snake. “But, fine! I’ll go. I know when I’m not _wanted_ ,” ( _But I know when I’m **needed**_ ) Belle could practically _hear_ the true meaning behind his words as clear as day. He had a sickeningly obvious mock-hurt in his tone of voice, but he relaxed his pose, and proceeded to leave. 

Yet before Mr. Gold could reach the door to exit Belle’s cramped and ratty apartment, the owner of said apartment blurts out, “Wait!”

Mr. Gold paused, and half turned his head toward the three-person party huddled in the kitchen. He had an all-knowing, lopsided smirk on his face. 

Belle squirmed her way out of her family’s shielding arms and stood bravely, between them and the leather-wearing imp.

The strange man’s eyes flashed to Gaston, to Moe French, and then, finally, to Belle. Belle stared back, headstrong yet completely captivated. _Does he curl his own hair, or is it naturally that bouncy?_ Belle thought, curiosity getting the better of her.

Shaking herself from her reverie, Belle forced herself to become mindful of Mr. Gold’s (if that was indeed who he was) looming presence. He wasn’t a street performer; he was the Spinner: an imp who granted wished for a price.

“You… you came when I said your name, didn’t you?”

Mr. Gold gave a leg, bowing with mock respect. “Correct you are, dearie! Say my name thrice and I shall come, come hell or high water.”

Moe French bleated a throaty cough, coming to stand by Belle’s side. He eyed Mr. Gold with a deeply suspicious glower, but his watery blue eyes softened when they landed on his daughter. “Petal,” he began, placing his hand on her shoulder, “you know this man?”

“Well, it seams that little _Miss French_ hasn’t told her dear ole Papa her plan! My, my, dearie, so rude not to introduce your own guests,” Mr. Gold tutted.

Belle blinked owlishly at the little greasy man before her, reeling in her thoughts. She’d said his name twice the day Mr. Paige gave her Mr. Gold’s calling card, not once more. But today, she’d said his name a dozen or so times (four times, actually)! The hope Belle had put her heart and soul into was standing before her very eyes - she wasn’t about to let him slip away. 

“Mr. Gold, can you help my father’s debt problems? And, while we're at it, everyone elses'?” 

Moe gawked at his daughter. “Belle! Please, my girl, don’t tell me you’ve asked… _**Mr. Gold?**_ Please, somebody tell me this is a dream, no, a nightmare! A terrible, terrible nightmare!”

Before Belle could comfort her father, Mr. Gold came swaggering back into the kitchen. Gaston had his eye on the imp like an angry, fat tomcat on a rat, and sprung up to grab the butcher knife from its wood-block home. With the knife aimed at him, Mr. Gold continued with, “Yes, yes, I’ve heard all I need to know. Something along the lines of: _Help! Help! My father is being evicted from his shop to the very clothes on his back! Can you save us?_ The answer to your question, dearie, is…” Before he could answer, however, Mr. Gold slapped Gaston’s blade away with the heel of his palm, sneering uglily. “Yes, I can,” he retorted darkly. He turned on the heel of his foot then, mood brightening, but not in a way Belle found comforting. Mr. Gold walked with long strides, circling the three quaking individuals with predatory glee. “Yes, I can save your father from the ogres… For a price,” he pointed out.

“You offer to help my debt problems but would have me promise you more money!” Mr. French groused.

“Ah,” Mr. Gold politely caught his breath, twiddling his fingers together. He spitefully informed, “You see, um, I uh… _make_ money?”

A very uncomfortable silence fell upon Mr. French and Gaston, but Belle saw this coming from a mile away. As Mr. Gold came to stand before her father, looking like a black, spiky daisy, Belle opened her mouth to speak again, but the leather-clad imp beat her to it. “What I want, is something a bit more… special.” Belle heard her father gulp, but didn’t move to abject. “My price… is _her_.” Belle found herself at the end of Mr. Gold's pointer finger.

Mr. French nearly cracked his neck as he looked back, panic for his daughter’s wellbeing replacing the fear for Mr. Gold. The imp just bared his rotting, yellow teeth in a bittersweet grimace, pointing at Belle with a long, black-clawed finger. “No,” was all Moe could say, gruff and unwavering, as he turned back to Mr. Gold. 

“The young lady is engaged… to me,” Gaston pressed, reaching to drag Belle away again. Belle huffed at that and shook out her loose sleeves. Her daffodil-yellow blouse felt too pretty at the moment, and she wanted nothing more than to slip on her favorite blue gown. But now was certainly not the time! 

“I didn’t ask if she was _engaged_!” Mr. Gold snapped, a flash of unmeasurable rage crossing his expression. He turned his back to them, then, and slowly strutted toward the fridge. “I’m not looking for… _love_ ,” he added animatedly with a flare of his hand. “I’m looking for a personal concierge. A little helper, if you please,” Mr. Gold explained, turning back to them. “For my rather large… _agency_.” Belle was starting to detect a Scottish accent in Mr. Gold's voice. 

Mr. Gold pitilessly pointed at Belle, but his reptilian eyes pinned her father with daggers. “It’s her, or no deal.” 

Mr. French had had enough. He looked grave, sickened that this monster would play this kind of game with them. “Get out.” Mr. Gold tilted his head, smirk never leaving. He lowered his finger, though, but did not move. Belle’s father glared back, then, and stepped aside. Gaston did the same, dragging Belle with him. “Leave!” 

Belle, choked by Gaston’s arm, pondered the situation. 

Asking for Belle as his own girl Friday wasn’t nearly as barbaric as asking for her firstborn. Nor did anybody have to give up the blood of a virgin for him. Assisting was what Belle did, though. She loved being Storybrooke’s librarian, she truly did, but… Mr. Gold certainly has seen what the world has to offer. Adventures, thrills, expeditions, pilgrimages… everything a small-town girl like Belle only dreamed of doing. And Mr. Gold… well, he didn’t seem too ~~vile~~ atrocious! 

Mr. Gold said nothing, but his head lowered as he made his way back to the living room, and proceeded, again, to leave.

Belle couldn’t just let him leave! _She’d_ been the one to call him! This was her responsibility! This was her life, and who was Gaston and her Papa - even though she loved her father with all her heart (honestly, Belle could live without Gaston) - to tell her otherwise!?

“Wait!” Again, Belle calls out to stop Mr. Gold from leaving. The imp turned, looking expectedly at her. He smirked wickedly, but his eyes appeared gentler than before. 

Belle pushed Gaston’s arm aside and approached Mr. Gold. From here, so close to the man, not even a whole head taller than her, she could smell something like pipe smoke and straw. Something like magic. She met the imp’s gaze, and did not let his shockingly large irises spook her. Instead, she held her head high, mightily, and said, “I will do as you ask.”

Mr. Gold gave a gleeful, childish giggle like a toddler getting a rather good gift on his birthday. He clapped his hands to his chest, eyeing Belle up and down in every way. Her family roared in disagreement, Gaston even forbidding her to go! 

“Gaston, _please_!” Belle chided, wondering if her quaking self was due to Mr. Gold chilling presence, her father’s disapproval, or Gaston's overbearingness. “No one decides my fate but me – I will go with him, Papa, so the ogres don’t take everything you have; so they don't take all of Storybrooke.”

“It’s forever, dearie,” Mr. Gold quipped.

“My father, my family, my friends – everything will be saved? No-more ogres?” she asked Mr. Gold.

Mr. Gold put his hand to his chest, waving the other. Lowering his head, he responded honestly with, “You have my word.”

“Then you have mine. I will be yours, your personal assistant… Forever.”

“Deal!” Mr. Gold giggled again, clapping and twittering about like the imp he was. He p

Moe French, nearly at the brink of tears, came shuffleing to his daughter. He took her by the shoulders, watery blue eyes meeting steal-hard powder blue ones. “Belle, please! Don’t do this, petal! You _are_ everything I have! You can’t go with this… this _beast_!”

Mr. Gold feigned a sickeningly fake mock-hurt, but Belle was too busy meeting her father’s gaze. She put her hand on her father’s chest, and then looked to Gaston. He looked sad, but, he never was one for emotions. “Papa, Gaston… it’s been decided.”

“She’s right,” Mr. Gold interrupted, coming up behind Belle so close that she could feel imp’s heat radiating off of him, and smell his surprisingly spicy, zesty, breath. “The deal… is _**struck**_.”

At that, Belle’s world began to collapse around her. Metaphorically speaking, though, but she refused to show it.

“Oh – congratulations on your town's little debt problems!” Mr. Gold spitefully jested, as he placed his long-fingered hands on Belle’s waist. He shepherded her out of the kitchen, keeping a hand on the small of Belle’s waist. 

Belle, at this point, shut down.

Mr. Gold led her out of her apartment, away from her father and fiancé; away from her life; away from everything she’s ever known. Then, with the slam of the door through her new boss’s magic, they were gone.


	3. Terms and Conditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss French and Mr. Gold discuss the terms and conditions of their new relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! Welcome to the first official A/N of Mr. Gold's PA! I'd like to give a round of applause of those who have kudo'd and commented already - I'll be honest: I'm a comment whore and I love praise. If ya want me to write faster, comment more. Please. *internal screaming*
> 
> For those who are familiar with my other works... plz don't kill me for being an untrustworthy author. D:

When Mr. Gold took Belle away from her library and apartment, they’d practically skipped down the street like two jolly ole chums going merrymaking. He forcefully hustled her along, nearly pushing the poor girl over in his haste to go down Main Street. Belle was in thrall to this alien treatment, but so nonplussed that she just went with it, her heels hitting the puddly midnight road in rapid clickety-clacks. Not even Gaston, the great bore Belle found him to be, treated her as such! 

“You don’t have to push me around, you know– I did say I’d come willingly!” 

“Tut-tut, dearie! Speaking out against your new lord and master so soon?”

Belle tried her hardest to keep up with the green-scaled man, in all honesty; Mr. Gold was certainly not the tallest, nor the broadest, of men, but he had legs like stilts! He kept at a brisk pace beside her, walking with long strides that Belle fought to keep up with. The imp didn’t even hesitate to slow down for her. Not even a whole head taller than her, yet he could very well win a race!

Storybrooke’s cool, familiar night air nipped at Belle’s cheeks, turning them rouge along with the rush of adrenalin, but the winter wind aided in cooling her agitated blood. She panted beside her new slave driver, but forced herself to be quiet, watchful, sensible, and to take in everything she didn’t back at the apartment. 

Mr. Gold was a wiry man: svelte, with a peculiar effervescent and puckish nature. He had large irises, large enough that Belle could hardly see the whites of his eyes, and pen-point pupils that seemed to stare into her very _soul_ … which they were doing right now! Once their eyes locked together, he sneered like a feral tomcat stuck in a trap. 

“Um, M-Mr. Gold, sir, where are we going?” Belle stammered, blushing harder (if possible). The last thing she needed was to have him think her a goggling dolt. But, in Belle’s nature, she was unable to keep heavy hushes, and chose to look like a stuttering filly instead.

The man snickered at her. Mr. Gold’s shrill titter sent chills down Belle’s spine, like thousands of tiny ants crawling along her spinal column. The feel of her blouse brushing against her gooseflesh didn’t help matters. She’d fidget like a frightened filly, all right, yet the presence of her new boss’s hand on the small of her back kept her anchored – for now. 

“Why, we’re filling my part of the bargain, of course!” 

The florist’s daughter blinked owlishly at this. “What’s that?”

Mr. Gold actually simpered at this, but didn’t answer.

When they finally came to a stop, Belle nearly sobbed in gratitude. Her breath came as heavy, short puffs of fog, contrasting against the glossy black night. No shop was open, not now, but the streetlights bounced off the puddles in the road. Teeth chattering, bones quavering, the tears fighting off the cold in her eyes pinched her skin like icicles – Belle was as cold as a corpse, but she found the energy in her to look up at the place before them. 

It was the old abandoned pawnshop. No one had worked here since forever, it seemed, for Belle couldn’t, for the life of her, remember who’d run the shop before it closed. With Mr. Gold’s hand on the small of her back, the two gazed up at the boarded up building in silent regard. 

They must have stood there for a millennium, Belle thought, because without the pumping of blood and adrenaline through her veins, her limbs went beyond the term “numb”. 

Belle was the first to break the hush – a hush, if one didn’t pay heed to Belle’s near-violent shivering. “Are we going to pawn the town back to prosperity, sir?”

Mr. Gold erupted into a mad fit of giggles again, retracting his startlingly warm hand from Belle’s waist. Fighting against the bitter cold of the winter’s night, and dressed in a flimsy yellow blouse, a black pencil skirt, and a pair of once-thought-adorable-but-now-a-nightmare-from-hell beige buckled stilettos, the heat of Mr. Gold’s hand seemed to be an opulence. After all, she was freezing, and he was pleasantly warm in all that tough leather. Any other time Mr. Gold put his hand on her in the future, Belle determined, she’ll be quite cross! But for now, in the cold of the night, Belle allowed herself to miss the presence of Mr. Gold’s hand. She dared not voice it, though.

“Come, come, dearie! Inside quickly, now!” Mr. Gold whimsically demanded, grinning like the devil from ear to ear. He flicked his wrist, and magically the doors to the pawnshop burst open. The boards and nails ricocheted wildly on their hinges, the nails pinging like pennies once they hit the concrete patio. Once the doors where flung wide open, and the rumpus settled down (along with Belle’s heart), Mr. Gold shoved her inside. She’d be angry with him now, if it weren’t for her aw over his careless use of magic. 

Magic was a fickle mistress – at least, according to the few warlocks she knew. Not everyone was allowed to use it, and Storybrooke was magic-free for the most part, save the handful of discreet sorcerers the town did have. One has to have a license for magic, proof of identity on them at all times, gain personal permission by local authority in order to use it, a publically voiced awareness of the magic-free zones… too complicated to bother with! 

Belle stumbled pitifully once she crossed the threshold, but luckily found a countertop before she fell. “Ah—“ she yelped, catching herself in her loss of balance. Dust and stale air filled her senses, blinding her, and she coughed and sneezed, flailing her arms to remove cobwebs, spider webs, or whatever it was, about her. She snuffled, rubbing her wrists to her stinging eyes.

“Not too shabby, I do say so myself! Not too shabby indeed,” Mr. Gold commented, strutting around in the background of the store, voluntarily oblivious to his companion’s fit. 

“ _Not too shabby?_ Place is a dust ball!” Belle rasped, eyes watering. She heard old sheets rustling in the room, uncovering untold artifacts long forgotten. Mr. Gold didn’t respond, but continued making happy little noises of approval. Belle rubbed her teary eyes, then whipped away the grime she’d caught in her stumble on her skirt. Appearances were the least of her worry, right now. Sniffling, she looked around – _tried_ to look, at least. It was too dark to properly see.

Belle, fidgeting nervously with her hands up to her breastbone, asked tentatively, “Is there a light?” 

“Say now, dearie?” Mr. Gold paused for a moment. Then, “Ah, yes, of course; light! Forgot you don’t have eyes like mine…” And with the careless snap of his fingers and a worrisome rattle of the pawnshop’s ancient electricity system, the room was illuminated with rusty, dilapidated light. Belle brushed off a cobweb from her shoulder as she took in the now-lit room. 

The eerie silence that the abandoned pawnshop once provided was dreadfully haunting, but the warm and gentle yellowed light the electricity gave, along with the system’s bee-like drone from years of neglect, softened the ambience up considerably. Thick, dust-coated cobwebs hung on every surface; spider-web gauzes veiled every nook and cranny like blankets of lacework, and shadows looked more like monsters on the cluttered walls than tricks of light. Along the walls hung suspiciously haphazard shelves that held an impressive array of ornaments, knickknacks, gewgaws, bibelots, and other novelties. Belle even spied a tea set or two – but, she nearly jumped in fright upon seeing a ratty-looking deer head mounted on the wall – if that was indeed what it was, for under all that smut, it was hard to tell.

“So, Mr. Gold…” Belle began, taking precautious steps to the old-fashioned cash register. She had full intent on speaking the terms of the deal she’d just made with her new employer, but Mr. Gold had made it quiet clear he wanted to be in here, so Belle wasn’t sure if speaking out was a no-no or not. He’d shoved her inside, quite literally, and disappeared without so much a let’s-lay-down-the-law. 

“Hmm?” Mr. Gold grunted inattentively, already haven hidden himself in the back of the store.

“Um, what… What shall I do? For you, um, I mean? S-Sir?” 

Mr. Gold still didn’t answer, and Belle had had enough by then. With a flustered huff, the ex-librarian abandoned her statue-like pose and bravely shuffled through the sheet-covered shelves toward the back. Bravery, Belle knew, didn’t mean to go without fear. It meant you knew what you feared, but you face it anyway, because once you do the brave thing, bravery – courageousness – always followed. Once feeling stronger in spirit, Belle had made her mind. She’ll not let this imp sway her determination to help her town!

Belle stood as proud as a puppy at the doorway to the backroom. Mr. Gold was pulling off sheets atop shelves and desks, hastily dusting away too-thick cobwebs. He unnerved Belle awfully through his suddenly all too-quiet behavior. Where did the puckishness from earlier go?

“Mr. Gold, I do believe we have some discussing to do.”

The imp suddenly jerked his head back, staring at Belle like a deer caught in the headlights. He blinked – an action she just now notices he does very little of – owlishly, frowning as if he had honestly forgotten who she was and why she was here. But he soon shook himself out of his thoughts and drummed his fingers on the desk beside him. 

Belle’s introspection of Mr. Gold would never come up dull, would it?

Mr. Gold flared his hands and straightened up like an arrow. “Yes! The terms of our contract!”

“Y—“ Belle was cut off.

“You,” he rejoined hotly, swaggering up to her and forcing Belle to backup and return to the store’s main room. The malicious imp was back once more, it seemed. “You, my little dearie, are to be my helpmate. In life and sickness, ye know, yadda yadda yadda. Whatever I say, you shall do accordingly, without question or complaint. You will serve me my meals, and if I ask specifically for food, which will be rarer than a wolf’s moon, you are to cook for me. I take my tea three times a day – don’t forget,” Mr. Gold dictated, using his hands animatedly. His long, nimble fingers were something Belle found rather distracting. “You will dust this—“ Mr. Gold, striding about Belle and the room like an untamed wildcat, hissed as he, rather explosively, kicked an old board that was leaning against a bookshelf, and the termite-bitten thing came tumbling down in a mushroom cloud of gray. “— _hovel_ of an joint!”

Belle flinched as if she’d been slapped. “Y-yes, Mr. Gold, sir, I understand—“

Mr. Gold paid her no heed, except giving her a flash of a devilish smirk, as he leaned up against the bookshelf with his long legs strutted out, crossing one of the other. Belle tried (and failed) not to notice how fascinating he looked in his leather breeches and boots. He continued on with his exegesis, presenting lively gesticulations with his hands. “You will launder my clothing and clean up my messes, be it literally or situationally—”

Belle didn’t want to know what a “situational” mess meant. It was probably as bad as finding out what his messes in general might be.

Belle nodded vigorously with Mr. Gold’s sudden stream of information and direction. Without anything to write this down on, she prayed to God that she’d remember it all.

“You will bring me fresh straw when I’m spinning at the wheel—“

“So it’s true?”

Silence.

Belle threw her hand up to her mouth. Oh, no! She’d done it again! She’d spoken out of turn; she’d rudely interrupted the man, and she knew, with a frightful quiver of anticipation. _Why do I always do this!? And why have I already done it so soon with this man who could very well hurt me!? Good heavens above, forgive me for my tongue – not even ten minutes into my servitude to him and I’m already a suicidal fool! Oh, what will Papa think_ —!

Dread filled the strained hush that followed. Mr. Gold, frozen in place with his mouth ajar in mid speech, stared at her from across the room with a hard, bone-chilling, unreadable expression. “ _What?_ ” he snapped venomously, first to break the stillness, this time. 

Blood rushed to Belle’s cheeks. She was trapped with this man in an awful situation she’d been the cause of. It felt as if she’d been thrown naked on a stage with too many searchlights aimed on her, and her only audience was Mr. Gold, scrutinizing her from all sides and angels. “Um… I uh, I uh… I meant—“

“ _Speak up, girl!_ ”

Belle stammered, “I-I meant, that, it’s true… I’m just surprised, I suppose. The legends. Your legends, that is, Mr. Gold. They say you spin straw into gold…?” her words hung in the air, timid.

Mr. Gold tilted his unblinking face, again studying her from another angle. He curled his fingers into a fist, but then relaxed them, and lowered his hands to drum his fingers on his thighs. “Yes,” he grunted dismally, voice quiet. “Yes, it’s true. I spin gold. Any more witless questions, girl?”

“N-no, sir, I’m sorry, sir. Please continue.”

He glared over his hooked nose, and with his head tilted down, his eyes seemed more sunken in. “Yes indeed…” Still drumming his fingers – almost nervously, Belle might say – he went on. “You are to see to it that my new state of residence is well known. This,” he gestured about the pawnshop in general, “will be my place of busyness. I, _we_ , need a place to hold our legal affairs. Pawnshop or not, it’s now mine to run," Mr. Gold lifted his face up and flared up a hand. "Oh, and you’ll skin the children I hunt for their pelts!”

Belle’s blood ran cold. 

No. No no no. Just, no. No.

She will not, and by the gods, she will not, be skinning _childre_ —

Belle stumbled back. It was only a tiny step, a smidge of an inch, but it was just enough. Behind the horrified young woman was one of the suspiciously hung shelves. The thing was just screaming to be broken, and when Belle heard that vile demand from her employer’s mouth, the blood drained from her head and down to her toes, making her step clumsy and dangerous. She recoiled like a fainting goat once her back hit the self.

The shelf collapsed in on itself like a demolished tower. The china was shattered, cobwebs were snagged, glass was smashed, and Belle was counting the seconds to her death. She tried suppressing her sneezes from the dust, whimpering in woe. 

The surviving china was trampled on in the midst of Belle’s fit. She scampered away with the grace of a drunken cat, skirting around the porcelain wreckage if it was a heap of dead children ablaze. In the dull, rusty light of the pawnshop, the china glistened ashen white and pale yellow. It cracked like the grinding of rock and glass. 

Once all settled, dust and porcelain and all, Belle let her muscles and joints unclench. Tension tingled in her bones and to the tips of her fingers and toes, but she was so fazed that she couldn’t hardly move. At a snail’s pace, Belle turned toward Mr. Gold, expecting a well-deserved punishment to follow. A tiny whine left her throat: the only sound besides the settling broken china. 

“I—oh, I’m so, _so_ sorry—”

Mr. Gold harrumphed, rolling his eyes. “That one was a quip, dearie! No-need to go about breaking my tea-things.”

Belle nearly sobbed in relief. He wasn’t mad at her for breaking a whole antique tea set – hell, Mr. Gold seemed to not give a rat’s ass for her mishap. But, Belle still fretted, and turned toward the mess in a hasty panic. Maybe something could still be salvaged!

Without a second thought, the shamefaced auburn-haired woman dropped to her knees with tears threatening to spill – despite Belle’s complete and utter lack of grace, she’d not let her dignity go, so she refused to cry. 

Belle examined the mess of broken porcelain, fretting as badly as the sorry bastard who’d accidently tripped the Mayor’s kid last week.

Mr. Gold silently uncrossed himself from his spot, not making a sound. Belle hardly noticed him, shuffling about in the ruin, but she threw a quick look at him just to make sure he wasn’t going to snap at her. He had that awful unreadable expression again, but this time, he was static for far longer - harder to figure out. His gaze was far too solemn; far too complicated. Blushing harder at his intense glower at her, the ex-librarian turned back her wreckage while trying to nurse the wounds from the near palpable embarrassment she’d crafted for herself.

And, lo and behold, Belle managed to find one sole survivor of the china catastrophe: a teacup!

“L-look, not all’s broken!” Belle cheered, bashfully, holding up the daintily chipped cup from where she squatted on the floor. It was a tiny cup, with an even tinier chip, so, obviously, the cup could still hold tea! But she’d better make sure the future user(s) of this teacup is made aware of it, to avoid cut lips. “You can hardly see it,” she offered timidly, holding it out to show Mr. Gold.

Mr. Gold walked to her then. With stiffened elegance, fingertips splayed and pressed together before him, the man approached her cautiously with a deeply perplexed glower; Belle didn’t know if he was mad or confused. He cocked his head to the side, opening his hands as if to offer something of value, but his eyes were hard – was he going to strike her? 

“It’s just a cup,” he suddenly mused, addled, as if oblivious to the reason why she’d have a fit over a chipped teacup in he first place. Belle knitted her eyebrows, uncertain. The creak of Mr. Gold’s leather breeches and boots came to a stop before her kneeling figure.

“I—!“

“Miss French.”

Belle paled like a ghost doused in baking powder. She flinched, seeing Mr. Gold bend and raise a hand over her. She’d get punished, Belle knew it—!

Unexpectedly, the strange warmth of Mr. Gold’s hand prodded Belle’s. He genteelly snatched the teacup out of her trembling hands, silent as the grave. She heard him move again, and sit the cup on the counter with a refined ding of china clinking class, and returned to Belle’s side, taking her quivering hands once more. This close to her, Belle smelled his musk: straw, spice, magic, dirty money. Growing braver, Belle finally understood that he didn’t intent to do her harm and opened her damp, astonished blue eyes. Mr. Gold kneeled before her trembling, squatting self, completely focused on whatever it was he was doing. She goggled the wiry man as he raised her left palm between them. 

To Belle’s surprise, a bleeding gash was on the inside of Belle’s palm, and only now did she feel the sting of the cut. Blood was smeared across her hand, and it trickled in a small stream down her pale wrist, like crimson paint dripping down a creamy-white canvas. She hissed in shock, but Mr. Gold shushed her with a single glower. The imp intertwined his spinner’s fingers through hers, furrowing his brows in deep concentration. A purplish light began glowing from their joined hands.

The cut on her palm suddenly started to burn, but before the ex-librarian could snatch her hand away from her looming employer’s, Mr. Gold sneered at her and wrenched himself away himself, darting like a cockroach to the darker corners of the shop. 

With a dull, painful throb beginning to form against her temple, Belle examined her wound, only to find, and it was quite the bolt from the blue, that she had no gash! Not even a scar! The only evidence of her injury was the fading blood marks on her wrist, but it speedily evaporated, along with Mr. Gold’s sparkly and smoky, amethyst magic.

In aw, Belle looked to Mr. Gold – her gratitude painted across her face as clear as day. But Mr. Gold just hissed at her, brooding away in the darkened areas of the crowded pawnshop, head bowed with his arms behind him. The black feathers of his frock coat made him seem hundreds of times bigger, but he looked as if he wanted to vanish.

Mr. Gold heckled, “Miss French, I can’t very well have you bleeding all over my new floors. And if I catch you breaking another one of my things, ye witless lil' slip of a girl, I’ll take you out for a _thrashing!_ Capeesh!?”

She just blinked owlishly at Mr. Gold with her wide, powder-blue eyes. Was this the man she’d been taught to fear since the cradle? A socially awkward imp who carried stubborn librarians off into the night, and healed the wounds from their mishaps? 

Yet, here was Mr. Gold, threatening her with a “thrashing”. Okay, not so nice after all. Hastily, she stood up and straightened her skirts, all the while trying to quell the heat in her cheeks. Her gaze briefly fell over the chipped cup on the dusty counter. “Yes, sir. T-Thank you for healing me,” she thanked him honestly, staring down at her palm, still in aw of his magic. “It won’t happen again… So, t-this place is yours?” 

“Yes! Have I not made that clear enough?!” 

“No, sir, you have not,” she replied, hotly. “I’m really not sure why we’re here, actually.”

He looked at her as if he’d suddenly been blinded to her presence, not understanding her reasoning of being there. He just stared at her with those wide, unblinking reptilian eyes. But to Belle’s relief and comfort, he quickly shook himself straight along with his spiky leather coat. The heavy gnarled material creaked with every movement. “Yes, of course you don’t understand… witless girl.” 

Mr. Gold walked over to the cash register and elegantly hoisted himself up, perching coyly on the countertop beside the severally outdated, cobweb-covered contraption. As he played at removing the ashen smuts, he went on, without looking at Belle. “Most of Storybrooke is in debt to the ogres, dearie. As far as legal matters go, this entire town belongs to Ogre & Loan. And you lot know well that they’re not ones for… reasoning. But with my being here, I’m sure they’ll stay far, _far_ away. All in all, I will be replacing them with myself as your landlord—“

Woah. Wait. _What?_ Belle felt her heart flicker. Did… did Belle just give Storybrooke to Mr. Gold!? Did he think that fixing the _ogre_ debt problem was making it the _Mr. Gold_ debt problem!? How was that better!? 

The main reason Storybrooke went to Ogre & Loan instead of Contract Gold was to avoid magic – it was no secret that Contract Gold used preternatural means to settle transactions. Plus, the ogres already had their hands in most of Storybrooke’s businesses. Contract Gold, while known to most educated Storybrooke citizens, was more or less an out-of-town legend. The agency was real, no doubt, but no one in Storybrooke dared to call said agency up. But surprisingly enough, it wasn’t just the change in agency or anti-magic fanatics that kept people from pursuing Contract Gold (except Jefferson). Mayor Mills, Storybrooke’s self-proclaimed queen, told her “subjects” to stay away from Mr. Gold’s organization – it would only ruin them, not help them. Funny, since Storybrooke was getting its butt ripped off silly left and right. Belle always thought that it was solely because Mayor Mills was a business partner to the ogres. All that fresh-bred ignorance for Contract Gold, more or less, led to the disbelief of Mr. Gold entirely, hence the fictionalization of the imp. 

Before Belle could so much as get a word in, Mr. Gold waggled a finger at her. “Ah, ah, ah! Fret not, Miss French, I don’t plan on running your little town into the ground just yet. The ogres and I go farther back than history cares to admit, hence my grudge, but I’m not planning on being your dictator – too much trouble. See, with the agreement of our deal, which I must discus with that demmed wench who claims she owns this place, I will be taking over the notes, bonds, legal papers, titles, such-and-such’s of the busyness’s in this town that belonged to the ogres prior our deal. This is called a debt/equity swap, dearie – except, this is played by my rules, not your native ones. In this transaction, the only reimbursements the ogres are getting in return are my maledictions,” Mr. Gold’s grin was dripping with cruel maliciousness. Belle’s skin crawled. She shivered. “Simple as tea, ya see?” He clapped his hands together, tittering madly. 

“Okay… I think I understand now,” she said, smiling wanly. She sniffed and fiddled with her hands, mind racing a million miles an hour. When the buzz of the lighting system became the only sound between them, she piped up and asked, “But what are you going to do once you own everyone’s titles?”

Mr. Gold snorted, wrinkling his nose. “What do you think? Take over as master? No, Miss French, I’m going to make this fair and square. Your fellow Storybrookians must pay their debts – sorry, can’t snap my fingers and make it all go away, but I will _not_ expect money nor shared profit. They’ll pay in other ways,” he sneered, baring his crooked teeth.

Shakily, Belle nodded. They fell into a silence, but this time it was peaceful. Belle, like normally, was the first to break it.

“Why do you do it?”

“Do what, dearie?”

“Spin gold.”

Mr. Gold broke out a wry smirk. “Witless girl,” he quipped ruefully. He seemed to leave it at that. 

With him thumb-twiddling on the counter like an unkempt scamp and Belle fidgeting like a nervously nelly, Mr. Gold finally seemed to pick-up Belle’s heavy discomfort. His reptilian eyes met hers in steady introspection, but Belle stared back with uncertain courage. He blinked, finally, tilting his head in soft amusement with the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “What do you know of me, Miss French?”

“E-Excuse me?”

“What. Do you. Know of. Me!” he giggled with each word, his mood swings making Belle’s head spin.

“Oh, um…” Looking heavenward, Belle gathered her childhood memories, ignoring all the embarrassing tween fantasies. “You spin gold, therefor you’re known as the Spinner; you steal babies and small children; make deals that no-one can pay for or refuse; you never break a deal, and… and your name, your _real_ name, was so feared throughout the lands, that during the Dark Ages everyone forgot it because people failed to tell the next generations. Now, you’re just own as Mr. Gold… Mr. Gold, sir.”

Her boss harrumphed in good humor. He pushed a button on the cash register, and it clacked and dinged as the money drawer opened, dust flying. “Yes, yes, all true – except the babes part. Sorry to let you down, dearie, but I don’t steal,” The young woman sighed in relief. She gathered her wits, fear easing away with every new revelation of him.

Time to be brave.

“And of me?”

“You?” Mr. Gold echoed with a sneer. “What about you, girl? Didn’t I just tell you?”

“I mean, what am I to do when I’m not assisting you? I understand how I must assist you… but, other than that? Like, where will we be staying? Surely, sir, not here…” This was a question Belle needed to know. If she’s to be his little helper for the rest of eternity, she should know how – and where – she’s expected to live with her new life. Mr. Gold made it apparent that he was going to stay in Storybrooke, in the pawnshop, until he saw it fit to leave. But, what about Belle? Just hang about him all day, waiting to be of use? “Mr. Gold, you just ripped me away from my home and family, in the midst of an awful premonition, less than twenty minutes ago – how could I _not_ question my fate!?” Belle's arms waved about as she spoke out her pent-up tension, her face flushed with her douse of fury. She stared at Mr. Gold expectedly, seriously, as she steadily quieted down. 

This time, Belle didn’t feel ashamed about speaking out against her new boss. 

Mr. Gold held her gaze in an amused, deeply contemplated regard. The sides of his thin lips pinched and threatened to turn up. With an orotundly penetrating voice, a voice Belle sound disturbingly grating, Mr. Gold said, “You are my, um, how do they say it… Personal assistant – P.A.? Girl Friday? Go-to girl? The help? Auxiliary bitch?”

That last crude suggestion hit and stung Belle like a slap. 

Of _course_ she was his bitch. 

So, she really was going to be his all-time slave, huh? Belle braced herself by the counter, knuckles going white against the wooden edges. The momentum was just too much for the ex-librarian to handle... Mr. Gold had plucked her from her life without so much as a one-day-notice leave. This is the only life Belle’s ever really known, and he expected her to live diligently beside him while they run around Storybrooke, her and her family and friends’ home, without so much as a second glance back? 

So… Belle really was going to be forced to be Mr. Gold’s helpmate for the rest of her life, every second of the day, with no other alternative. But, what about free-time? Could she even be able to eat? Sleep? Read!? Oh, good heavens above, no! _No reading!?_

Mr. Gold went on, taking her silence as approval to continue. He genially seemed not to care for her distress – where had that kind man who’d healed her hand gone? He gestured to the neglected shop. “This shop is sufficient enough for me. And you. Once you tidy it up, we’ll roll out our sleeping bags here and open up for business! Until then, I’ll organize the paperwork from the ogres, run things over with your mayor, and get my man to go over the new arrangements with the renters of the titles involved.”

“Mm.”

Mr. Gold thrummed his fingers against his knees, then the counter. He was buzzing with energy – Belle had none of that, and none rubbed off on her grave mood. When she had nothing to say, and all she did was stare unseeingly at the dusty glass of the display cases, Mr. Gold jumped down with a soft pat against the filthy wood floors and began to pace up and down the walkway to the front door to the cashier.

With a dead tone, Belle mumbled, “So… I’m to be with you, forever? Here, right in Storybrooke? N-No seeing my Papa or friends?”

Mr. Gold paused in his pacing. 

His leather creaked softly as he turned to her, hands splayed and held together. He opened his mouth to quip at her, Belle suspected, but his breath hitched as his sharp, reptilian eyes flickered up and down the young woman’s figure. In a split second, his gaze shifted to the chipped teacup on the far left counter. Mr. Gold seemed to give up an internal battle with himself, and then promptly shut his mouth. Sighing with a tired puff, Mr. Gold’s expression grew solemn, yet far genteelly than earlier. He unhurriedly strode over, not speaking, head tilted down, and actually looked civilized as he regarded her, for the first time that evening, like an actual human being. For once. 

“Tell ye’ what, dearie…” The hints of his Scottish accent bled out in his somber words. “I’ll make you another deal.” 

Belle caught her breath. 

“If you can guess my name, the name that everyone feart like mice till' it split from all their wee lil' minds, I’ll let you go - without letting my side of the bargain down.”

Time held still again.

Belle actually had… had a chance? A chance for a normal life? (Not like she’d try running, of course – she made a deal, she’d follow it through till the ends of time if she had to) A chance to return to Papa and her friends?

A chance for adventure, and not tied down to Mr. Gold’s demands?

Ever since she was small, Belle loved adventure. She was certain she'd become an adventuress, but that was before she and Papa moved to Storybrooke. Now, she was a small-town girl in an even smaller town in the middle of nowhere - escape seemed inevitable. Belle imagined Mr. Gold was going to be a small glimpse at what she's always wanted, yet he quickly dashed that idea. But, here, he's offered a means of escape. Escape to the life she's always wanted. As a hero with her honor intact, still.

“If I can guess your name, correctly… you’d… let me go?”

Mr. Gold grunted in response, not meeting her gaze, while his own bore holes in the floor by her feet.

“That’s… Wow! Um, thank you, Mr. Gold! I—“

He then burst out laughing. It broke the solemn respect he held seconds ago, shattering the image of a man Belle was beginning to have a liking for. This laugh was just as shrill and sick as ever. Unnerved into silence, Belle stared at her boss’s quaking form, whom was desperately trying to conceal his laughter. “Don’t think it’d be easy as all that, ye’ witless girl!” Mr. Gold roared, slapping his knees. “Ye’d think I’d be a saint?!”

She’d follow his orders without “question or complaint”, happily as ever, especially if it meant she’d help her town, but that didn’t mean she’d let him degrade her as being stupid. Mr. Gold seemed to seriously doubt her virtue, disrespected it even. Belle would not stand up for—!

Mr. Gold, settling down, straightened up and pulled a flask out of thin air. He uncorked it and took a swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Great, he drinks too? She wrinkled her nose, smelling the alcohol from where she stood. It was one think to be a meanie, but another to be a sot. 

Belle better start thinking of names. Fast.

“So… um… IS YOUR NAME ROBERT?!”

“Wa— WHAT!? WHAT KIND OF NAME IS THAT?!”

“SORRY YOU JUST KINDA LOOK LI—“

“MISS FRENCH, I BETTER START SEEING YOU CLEANING UP IN HERE OR SO HELP ME, I’LL—“

"WHAT ABOUT NICHOLAS!?"

" _MISS FRENCH!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what's Mr. Gold going to do next? Order Belle to clean the pawnshop, have dinner with her, shepherd him and Belle back to her apartment to crash there for the night? Or is the next chapter a jump into the near future?
> 
> You decide! Post a prompt! 
> 
> I'm openminded to ideas, suggestions, friendly criticism, ect. Feel free to throw me some prompts. I luuuuuv meh some prompts. 
> 
> If you'd like to shoot me an idea through Tumblr, go right ahead, it's under the same username, but I rarely use it besides looking up otp fan art or pming.


	4. One Week Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fairgame prompted: "Jump start to the near future or whatever you already have an idea of."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, sorry!

Mr. Gold’s pawnshop was quiet.

Too quiet.

Typically, the shop was fairly quiet, especially when Mr. Gold was out, but what gave Belle the sign that something was off was absence of pitter-pattering of rodent feet in the walls. 

Today, however, she heard nothing. Not one soft scratch from a critter.

Belle tightened her grip on her sponge, narrowing her eyes through the gas mask’s smudgy goggles. She’d been cleaning and scrubbing about in the pawnshop since dawn, only taking one bathroom break up till now. Breakfast had been a muffin and a small coffee from Granny’s – courtesy of her delightful boss. 

It had been precisely one week since Belle’s deal with Mr. Gold, the leather-clad imp she called boss (or master, to be more realistic). So far, Mr. Gold had been very direct in stating what he wanted and when he wanted it. Cleaning his “place of business” was pretty high on the list of her duties (and only), but the job was hardly anywhere near being done. 

On the night Belle’s boss had dragged her from her library apartment, her life took a drastic shift from its original path. Mr. Gold was not lying when he told her they’d be staying at the pawnshop. He had made her clear some furniture and remove their protective sheets, shake them out, and keep them in the backroom’s walk-in closet.

And then he made her sleep in said closet. Gah! The gall of that man! 

~

_“Where am I to sleep?” she asked Mr. Gold, bleary-eyed from exhaustion and stress. The imp, resembling a very murky rifle-green in the dim light of the pawnshop, scrunched up his nose in brief contemplation._

_“Come,” he said, still a rung up entity of boundless energy, “and bring the linens!” Belle sighed and followed the sorcerer into the backroom, dragging the sheets she had been forced to remove from various articles of furniture moments ago behind her. They came to the closet: a small, walk-in room that was much too cramped for two people. Yet before she can process anything or inquire him about it, he shoves her inside and shuts the door. It was pitch-black inside and smelled of must. Like a dungeon._

_“Hey!” Belle cried, banging against the door. “Open the door!”_

_“Open it?” he tittered. “Why should I do that? Can’t have you running off into the night.”_

_“But—“_

_“Miss French, you have your blankets, you have your shelter. Clothes are in there somewhere. Don’t act so wretched, dearie, I’ll let you out in the morning.”_

_“But, I need to pee.”_

_A heavy silence followed. Belle was beginning to fear that Mr. Gold had already left, having magicked himself away and off to do his dastardly deeds. But to her relief, the lock to the door unlatched and opened. He grimaced at her and pointed to a direction._

_Without a word, Belle dashed off and found the bathroom (a room that was curiously too well-kept for a rundown building {did Mr. Gold use magic to make it clean?}) where she did her thing. After washing her hands, she sulked back into the backroom where Mr. Gold awaited for her, still glowering at her._

_“Goodnight, Mr. Gold,” she said softly as she walked back into the closet. Her boss just sneered before shutting and locking the door._

~.~.~

It had been like this for seven days. Mr. Gold would lock her up in her “room” and come back around 5:30 a.m. sharp (however, he got her at 9:00 a.m. the first morning) with a small offering of food for breakfast. He then told her to make tea – a task Mr. Gold demanded Belle do with tea leaves, like in the olden days – with a fancy-shmancy tea set she hadn’t smashed to pieces yet. Curiously, he always used the one teacup that miraculously survived Belle’s graceless reign of terror save for a small chip. 

Firstly, they had morning tea together. Mr. Gold was somewhat polite in those times, despite his remarks and quips about a various different subjects. Afterwards, he gave her a collection of cleaning supplies and told her to get to work. 

By midday, he returned with lunch. Belle made Mr. Gold’s twelve o’clock tea while she gratefully munched on the meal offering and listened to his progress with Storybrooke’s painfully corrupted arrear matters. Indeed, the sorcerer couldn’t snap his fingers and make everything sunshine and smiles again – at least, not with financial issues. According to her boss, who told her this with a menacing grin, the ogres were “no longer a problem”. Now it was all boring business with the mayor and townspeople. 

Mr. Gold left her yet again after lunch; still, she wasn’t allowed to leave the pawnshop. For good measure (and Belle has tested this), he locked the entrances every time he was out. Not that Belle would leave or anything. She had made a promise to stay with him. Despite that, it still hurt that she couldn’t go outside; oh, it just tormented her that her library was across the street! (But, wait, why had they walked around so long the night he dragged her away? Magic? A walk around the buildings? Oh well, didn’t matter anymore)

When the day grew dark, Mr. Gold returned with dinner. He wouldn’t tell her much of the dealings in town during their (Belle’s) supper, choosing to poke fun at her instead. It annoyed Belle to no end, but upon guessing that Mr. Gold probably didn’t have many people to socialize with on a normal basis, she could handle it and grit through his teasing. 

After they finished the evening tea, he would shut her up in the closet once more - well, not before Belle could try guessing his name. She had yet to be right. 

Today begun no differently. Mr. Gold would be returning soon for his afternoon tea bringing with him her lunch. She was busy scrubbing away grime and schmutz off the wooden floors in the backroom, on her hands and knees to reach under a particularly heavy desk she couldn’t move. The mask she wore helped keep the dust out of her eyes and lungs – it didn’t keep sounds out. The rats or mice she heard in the walls were her “music”, so to speak. Disturbing, yes, especially the first few days, but now she was accustomed to it. 

That was why Belle suddenly felt so troubled by the lack of it.

Squirming out from beneath the desk, Belle dunged her sponge into a rusty metal bucket filled with dirty soap water and rung it out, dripping murky water across the floor as she ducked back under. Scrubbing, she keenly listened to the sounds. Still, she heard no rodent. 

It was then a small scrapping sound was emitted from beside her. And a squeak.

Shrieking as something furry brushed past her bare forearm, Belle jerked violently away. Somehow forgetting that she was beneath a solid wooden desk, she banged her head against the top, sending stars to spark pain against her skull and vision. Belle scrambled away like a madwoman, fight or flight instincts kicking in full gear as a long beige-pink tail and claw feet moved from the desk’s shadows. 

“RATS!” she yelped, leaping up and grabbing a broom. Belle used it to sweep beneath the desk, having to force herself to ignore the chills in her spine as the besom made contact with a small animal. It squeaked viciously, as much as a small rat could, scrabbling at the ground the bristles as it was flung out from its hiding place. Sliding across the floor, the rat scampered to its feet and ran to a set of drawers, vanishing into a rodent-sized hole Belle noticed a few days ago. 

Belle fell to her knees, glaring daggers as she watched its speckled, near-hairless tail disappear inside its home. She leaned down onto her chest, rear up, tilting her head so she could see inside. Belle couldn’t, but a tiny set of beady black eyes and a small rodent nose stared back as if to challenge her. If she weren’t as bright as she was, Belle would stick her hand inside to grab the little bastard. “So this is where you’re hiding, huh? You little son of a—“

“Miss French.”

Squeeling yet again, Belle shoots up to greet the sudden arrival. However, she didn’t miss hitting her head yet again, this time against the dresser.

“Mr. Gold!”

“Yes, yes, it’s me, don’t act so happy. What are you doing?”

“I, I ah—“

Mr. Gold waved a black-clawed hand. “Nevermind. I heard you scream from across town. What, the battle with the dust bunnies becoming too tiresome?”

Belle, rubbing her head as she ripped the mask off, winced as a spot of pain flared under her touch. “I saw a rat. It touched me.”

Mr. gold pouted his lips as he waltzed into the room. “Aw,” he said in a high-pitched pitying tone, “did the wittle mouse scare the wittle girl?”

Fuming, Belle hopped to her feet. “No! I’m mad!” Before her boss could respond, she martched up to him and shook the gas mask at him like a lecturing wife. “You should take care of pests!”

Her fear of Mr. Gold had long since vanished. Belle knew from the week’s experience that if she countered a quip of his, he wouldn’t punish her. He had yet to hurt her. So, Belle felt fine to lecture him – beside, she had a good scare just now and two good hits to the head.

“Me?” the imp sneered, shock clouding his reptilian eyes for a brief moment before it washed into something akin to anger. “Your job, dearie, is to clean my shop. I’m busy!”

“Busy! Mr. Gold, you work all day! You have magic. You can vanish them away, at least. It wouldn’t hurt to lay a mouse trap or two down either!”

Her boss growled and stormed up before her, glaring with fire in his eyes. “How _dare_ you defy me!”

Belle threw her hands up. “I’ll defy you all I want! And I refuse to work in a rat infested hovel!”

“Do you want to be a snail? Because I’m thinking you’d look awfully better crushed under my boot.”

“Oh?” Belle breathed in sarcastic disbelief. “You’d really turn me into a snail?”

“Yes!”

“Fine! Have your way! All you do is bully people around, anyway – do you even have friends, Mr. Gold? Or are they all snails?”

Mr. Gold, once sneering and swearing in Belle's face, recoiled from her as if she’d bitten him. The young woman knew immediately knew that she’d hit a tender spot, and guilt reared its ugly head in the back of her mind.

With a loud growl, Mr. Gold spun around with his shoulders hunched and quaking with unadulterated anger. “You should be thankful I even bothered to help your puny little town,” he said so fiercely, so quietly, that Belle wondered if she'd heard him right. 

The guilt arose ever so slightly at that, and Belle opened her mouth to apologize, but shut it seconds after. She was still mad at him; he had no right to treat her like this, imp or not. But she had clearly wounded him, yet before she could reach out for him Mr. Gold stormed from the pawnshop with a cringe-worthy slam of the glass doors – which, shattered loudly upon that. Belle ran after him but paused midway from the backroom’s entrance to the front doors, and watched her boss fume down the street in the most vexed state she’d ever seen him in.

_Well then_ , she thought with a frown. _He’s so angry that he forgot to magic the doors back!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Will Belle escape? Will she stay and wait for our favorite imp? And wow's Storybrooke? What's Gold been up to anyhow? 
> 
> SEND ME PROMPTS TO FIND OUT~ :D


	5. Visit With The Mayor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Gold has a visit with the Mayor. Nuff' said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: can you write a scene with mr. gold and regina? fluffyness? i'm an evil queen fan~!
> 
>  
> 
> ok so after hours of fiddling around with tumblr I finally figured out how to set up my asking page.
> 
> (/>.<"\\)
> 
> plz dont kill me

_(Six days ago [the day after Mr. Gold employed Belle])_

~.~

A beautiful, middle-aged woman lounged back in her luxuriously black office chair. Her impeccably kept eyebrows knitted together in a vexed manner, honeyed brown eyes glaring at the document before her. 

_To Whom It May Concern:_

_I, Mr. Gold, take full ownership of all legal documents, notes, bonds, titles, and such-and-suches of Storybrooke, Maine. A debt-swap deal has taken place upon the primacies of Miss Isabelle French’s home, witness by Maurice Moe French and Gaston Rose. Our contract states that I, Mr. Gold, shall fix the corruption and bankruptcy brought about by Ogre Loan & Co.. In exchange I have taken Miss French as my permanent personal assistant._

_R. Gold_

“Damn him,” she cursed, sliding a document off to the side. “Damn that imp.”

“Damn him indeed, dearie.”

The woman’s breath hitched in surprise as she spun around, eyes widening in shock. “If you think you can just come in here—“

“Or you’ll do what, _Your Majesty?_ ” her uninvited guest tittered, emerged from the shadows of her private office. Instantly, the woman relaxed with a soft sigh of relief and slumped back against her chair. _Damn him, again!_

Regina Mills, Storybrooke’s “queenly” mayor, scowled at the imp who sauntered before her desk, smiling puckishly. He had not changed since the last time she saw him last week – svelte and wiry, the crocodile-skinned mage stood with all the arrogance and confidence of a haughty royal; though, the thick dragon-leather he sported around in spoke of something much darker than royalty. The mayor watched as the mid-afternoon light, filtering in through the window behind her, cast a grayish hue and golden glittery-ness to the imp’s complexion once the sunlight hit him just right. 

Her lips thinned into a tight smile. “Rumplestiltskin.”

“Regina,” the imp trilled, his more-or-less hidden burr slipping out a tad. “So lovely to see you again. How is wee Henry?”

The mayor’s lightly vexed expression turned into an eye roll at the mention of her son. She pushed her chair back and stood up elegantly. “He’s fine. You _did_ see him last week,” she sniffed. “So, Rumple. Wish to explain this?” Regina held up the fancily written document and waved it around. 

“Hmm? Means what it means, dearie.” 

Scowling harder, Regina set the paper back and walked to her make-shift bar where she fussed over a crystal decanter containing a fine mead. “I thought I made it very clear that I don’t need your help.”

Rumpelstiltskin snorted. “Well, clearly you do, dearie. Some slip of a girl had to be the one to tell me of your and the town’s insolvent. Trying to keep my very existence a secret didn’t work out so well in the end, aye?” 

The woman clenched her jaw. Regina could feel the imp moving around the room, no doubt watching her like a hawk; she could hear the scrunching of his leather garb, creaking thickly. Although greatly disturbed by his sudden arrival, Regina couldn’t say that she found his presence in itself disturbing – she was beyond used to it, after all. She saw the imp every damn week. But it pissed her off that he suddenly thought it all fine and dandy to abruptly take over as town landlord.

“Why don’t you go die in a hole?” she barked with remarkable poise for such poisonous words.

Gawking, the imp mimed a gesture of hurt and touched his heart. In a shrill voice, Rumpelstiltskin said, “Tsk! I thought I raised you better than that – trying to shoo me away so soon? Not even one kiss for Daddy?”

“ _Daddy?_ ” Regina echoed crossly as she poured a glass of mead for them. “You are not my father.”

Tutting, he uses the snarky quip, “But Henry calls me Grandpa!”

Once again, Regina growls and miraculously manages to not strangle the imp. Instead, she walks over and hands him a tumbler of mead. Rumpelstiltskin happily takes the offering and then insolently sprawls himself on Regina’s sleek black couch. She fought the urge to roll her eyes at him before she gracefully seated herself down in her personal armchair. Daintily sipping her own drink while she glowered at the imp who was busy studying her black and white office, with its forest-in-winter printed walls and a magnificent horse sculpture atop the mantelshelf, and a small steady fire going in the grate. 

When Rumpelstiltskin’s reptilian eyes finally landed on her, Regina straightened her back and glared over the crystal rim of her tumbler. She lowered it to her lap. “Why are you going around making deals in my town, Rumple? Where did the urge to play landlord all of a sudden come from?”

He sniffed. “You know my game, Regina. When someone wants to deal, we deal. I haven’t approached anyone who hasn’t summoned me first. You have little Miss French to thank for that.”

“This, this French girl – that’s the librarian, isn’t it? Henry loves her, you know. Keeping her all to yourself will make my son quite upset,” she said, crossing her long legs clothed in a suave suit pants.

The imp swirled the contents of his tumbler before speaking again. “I am well aware she’s the librarian. But, and I’ll say this again,” Rumpelstiltskin smirked, “ _she_ summoned _me_.”

Regina furrowed her brows and stiffened. “How the hell did she even get the means for that? Have you—“ she paused with a dark thought. “Is Henry involved in this?” 

“Hehe, no, missy. Henry hasn’t a clue and has loyally kept his mouth shut. But not _everyone_ is oblivious to my existence, you know! It was so cute of you to convince everyone that I’m just a dusty old fable to scare children into not misbehaving.”

“Do you want something? Or does butting in my territory amuse the living hell out of you and you simply have nothing better to do? I told you – don’t _need_ your help.”

Shaking his head in a childish manner, the imp countered, “I’m not butting in anywhere, and I’m not, per se, helping _you_. I’m helping Miss French. She made the deal with me. She paid the price fair and square.” 

“This is my town, Rumpelstiltskin. I’ll do what I damn well please,” the woman declared disdainfully. “You had absolutely no right to get yourself involved in my business.” Standing up, Regina put away their empty tumblers with her temper flaring. 

“Well, it’s all done now. Might as well get used to it.”

“Whatever. Where are you squatting down, anyway? So far only the florist and his daughter’s fiancé have reported your arrival.”

“The pawnshop…” Rumpelstiltskin begun to frown seriously as he watched her move about. After a painful moment of silence, he finally asked, “Why do you prefer the ogres over me, dearie? You know me; Henry trusts me. I taught you _everything_ you know – I even changed your diapers, for Hades’ sake! What’d I do to become dead to you like your dear mumsy?” 

Upon the mention of her mother, Regina gripped the tumbler so tight that it shattered. Snapping, she shouted, “Don’t you dare talk about my mother!”

The imp shot up, glaring. “You are being quite the brat today. Here I am, coming to you so nicely and all that, both of us knowing full and well that I can fix your town from bankruptcy, yet all you do is whine about it like a spoiled and hapless bairn!”

“How dare you speak to me like I’m a child! I’m the mayor of this town, not you!”

“I’m ah no’ wantin’ to be mayor!” he groaned, “I’m saving your godforsaken hide so it doesn’t get thrown in prison, or better yet, into an ogre’s belly! What in gods’ name is your problem!?”

Regina, still fuming, stormed across the office with the imp at her heels. “All you ever do is nag me down, and I refuse to be inferior to you in my own town!”

“ _Inferior?_ ” Rumpelstiltskin echoed her, snarling as the woman snatched a sheet of paper out of a drawer. “I was your sole guardian for the better part of your wretched childhood. A little respect would be much appreciated!” 

“Oh, get off your high horse!” Regina shouted back, plucking a fountain pen from her desk before roughly dropping herself down in the chair. Rumpelstiltskin hovered behind her as she furiously began to scribble something down. “I am not a little girl anymore. I am a grown woman, a mother, and a mayor, and I will not put up with you flaunting about in the spotlight with me in your shadow—“ abruptly pausing, Regina muttered quietly, “I suppose you’ll be using barter with most of your tenants? Considering everyone are my peasants.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you—And I don’t want you mucking up my plans, damn it! Stay to your business, and I’ll stay to mine! I swear to the seven layers of hell, Rumple, if you so much as put one boot in my space again—“

“Yes, yes, yes, you’ll throw your reign of terror and all. It taks a lang spoon to sup with a fifer, dearie.”

“—Disrespect me one more time, Rumple. I dare you, I _dare_ you!”

“ _Dare!_ ”

Regina growled in fury, writing at an alarming rate, before violently jotting her signature down. Rudely offering the pen up, she shoves the freshly written document toward Rumpelstiltskin who does the same, blotching the paper from the force of his writing. The imp snatched the paper up and tucked it into his waistcoat’s inner pocket. 

It was a document stating that the mayor consented for Mr. Gold to be the new landlord. 

“Yir the most infuriating besom Ah knae’,” Rumpelstiltskin quipped with a thick Scottish accent.

“Good. If there’s another, send her my way. We’ll start a club.”

“Pfft. Good to see you too, Regina,” The imp rolled his eyes as he prepped to magick himself away. Pausing, he turned back toward the mayor. “Did you really risk getting eaten by repo ogres just so ye’ could avoid dealing with me, or are all those Friday dinners with you and Henry hallucinations? Your nae’ trying very hard to avoid me, if that’s the case.” 

“No. I wanted to do my job without your judgment. Would you have ever let me live my neediness down had I been the one to tell you about the bankruptcy?”

“Probably not.”

“Mhmm. Thought so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, prompts is what's fueling this story now! Please don't be shy - shoot me up with anything! My Tumblr is under the username "ShadowTheCannibal"!


	6. Hoofing It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle gets a (unwanted?) visitor; Gold takes his PA and himself to crash at her place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _goatsaremysoulanimal_ prompted:  
>  prompt for Mr. Gold's PA!verse: Rumple and Belle move into Belle's apartment and/or have a dinner date somewhere that's not Mr. Gold's pawnshop!
> 
>  
> 
>  _Anonymous_ prompted:  
>  Prompt for Mr. Gold's PA! Where's Gaston in all this? And Belle's father? Maybe Gaston gets a little stupid and tries to take Belle away... XD

Belle sighed as she swept the broken glass off the threshold. She was extremely cautious as to where she stepped; her shoes (the stilettos {Mr. Gold had yet to give her new ones, or let her get her other ones}) were a crime in itself to wear while working, so she trudged about barefoot. It was a bigger risk for cuts, but trying to do the maid’s trade in high heels was as hopeless as mountain climbing in those flip-flops nail salon give you after a pedicure.

When Mr. Gold stormed off, the imp had shattered the front glass doors to bits and pieces, too busy fuming to notice or fix it. He hadn’t demanded Belle to stay—the doors had always been locked before, but obviously it was useless now. 

She practically had a red carpet leading to her freedom. 

_No, don’t think that,_ Belle adamantly shook the notion from her head. She knew the imp would up and end their deal if she broke her side of it. That was practically opening a gate for the ogres to return and eat everyone. This alone was a good enough reason for her to stay up, yet Belle would be lying if she said this was the only reason she wished to stay...

Their previous conversation kept playing over and over in her head. Out of spite, she called him out for being a friendless bully. Mr. Gold had reacted so _badly_ at that, and guilt (again!) reared its ugly head. Had anyone ever tried being friendly to the infamous imp, Belle thought? Likely not, especially the way he treated others. Or did Mr. Gold act like that because his friends were really dead…?

Speaking of the matter, did he even have family—? Belle didn’t know anything about him. It left her feeling a tad bit… down. Surely, an imp would have fellow imps to socialize with. But, was there ever an imp like Mr. Gold? 

No. From her Biology class in high school, Belle was taught that imps (a subspecies of demon) lived around three hundred years. 

Thinking back to last week, Mr. Gold _had_ mentioned something about the Dark Age. And, if Belle can remember her schooling correctly, the Dark Ages lasted from 500-1100 A.D. 

Mr. Gold had to be at least a thousand years old. Goodness! Belle huffed at this sudden realization, sweeping absently as she was whirled away by her thoughts. 

Could anyone else live that long? Even non-humans don’t live longer than a century or four. Disheartened, Belle felt a wild, sudden urge to gather the imp in her arms and hug away his (supposed) loneliness. 

She was so lost in her own head that Belle didn’t even notice the figure running toward her from across the street. She blinked owlishly as her name was called. Was that her imagination? Had Mr. Gold returned? No…

“Belle!”

Jerking in shock, Belle gasped as a flurry of colors and a strong pair of arms were thrown around her. An iron-worthy hug enveloped her, squeezing the very breath out of her lungs. “Gast—!”

“Belle, by the gods! You’ve escaped!”

“Ca—Can’t brea—“

“What? Oh, my bad.” Suddenly, Belle was dropped firmly onto the ground without warning. Large hands clasp her shoulders. “Sorry, it’s just—we thought we’d never see you again! What has the beast done to you?”

Belle flailed as she regained her balance, flustered and surprised all at once. Pushing back a sigh, she looked up at the tall male before her.

“Gaston, what are you doing here—?“

“Doing?” the man’s eyebrows rose a mile high. “Belle…” he nervously laughed. “We thought he'd _killed_ you. Your father and I have been worried sick, and the Mayor—the Mayor hasn’t done anything. That stuck-up bitch hasn’t even answered our calls. Hasn’t even left her mansion.“

The young woman scrunched her nose up as she processed Gaston’s words. She knew her father and this oaf of a man would miss her, but… What did he mean the mayor hasn’t done anything? “You asked for help? Why? I came with Mr. Gold willingly.”

Gaston gave her an exasperated gasp.“…The whole _town_ is enslaved, Belle! Wake up and see – That imp’s taken over! He’s terrorized Storybrooke! The whole of it!”

“Mr. Gold hasn’t taken over anything, Gaston. He’s fixing Storybrooke’s bankruptcy. You saw the transaction happen. I’m sure Mayor Mills hasn’t done anything because she’s assented for Mr. Gold to replace Ogre Loan & Co..”

Gaston looked awfully confused. He raised his arms and opened his mouth to protest, but all that fell from his lips were disbelieving babbles. Finally, he manages, “Think of your father.”

“I know, I know,” Belle gave a lamented sigh. “Yet this is the price I paid for, and I’m to honor it. Mr. Gold and I made a contract. A promise. I don’t break promises.”

“I know, Bluebell. But, just, are you… _okay_? You—“ Gaston was stern enough not to get visibly embarrassed, and he had a painfully serious expression. “You aren’t being taken _advantage_ of, are you?”

“No,” Belle insisted, blushing. “He hasn’t laid a hand on me.” 

Apparently, that was a worry of Gaston’s. He let out a deeply relieved sound. “Your father’s having a come apart. He thinks that imp—well, I’ll quote his exact words—‘ _will make you his assist in_ those _kinds of matters_ ’”.

The blood from Belle’s face ran south, but rushed back full force and nearly erupted from her nose. “As in, sexually speaking?” Without waiting for Gaston to reply, she goes on to say passionately, “Mr. Gold _hasn’t_ hurt me. Especially in ‘ _those_ kinds of manners’! If he wanted me to _assist_ him in the bedroom, he would’ve done it already.” Gaston looks ready to go berserk at that, so Belle adds, “And he hasn’t.”

He grumbled, but relaxed. Sniffing, he asks, “What about us?”

“What about us?” Belle echoed.

“We are still getting married, right?”

Oh. Oh! Goodness, Belle hadn’t even thought about her wedding! Feeling a little ashamed, but having the allusion of Mr. Gold in her favor gave the strength she needed to face Gaston. “I… Gaston, I promised Mr. Gold forever.”

“You promised _me_ forever.”

“That was before I became indebted to him,” Belle tells him tiredly, continuing to sweet the glass off the sidewalk. She could feel him hovering behind her as she moved.

“I proposed first.”

She suddenly stops sweeping and frowns. “Mr. Gold didn’t ask for my hand in marriage; he wanted an assistant. Forever.”

Gaston, with an ugly frown on his face, took the boom out of Belle’s lithe hands and tossed it to the ground. 

The russet-haired woman began to grow anxious. Gaston wasn’t one to get angry frequently, but when he did… Well, Gaston usually got what he wanted in the end.

“We’re to be married this spring, Belle! That imp can’t keep you from me – from us!”

“Gaston, please—“ Belle began to back away. Not looking down, she didn’t notice the few pieces of glass she missed. One pierced the sole of her right foot, making her wince in pain. However, the brunette doesn’t really care, and continues to step over the threshold of Mr. Gold’s pawnshop. She would be safe here, right? “Mr. Gold could come back at any second—“

“Why is the imp more important than us?”

“He’s not—Gaston, he’s keeping us from becoming homeless.”

“I have a cousin in New York. We can stay with him.”

“I’d rather not—“ Belle finally made it inside. She placed a hand on the doorframe, trying to keep her ground, and from Gaston entering. “This place is his. If he senses you coming in, he may consider it breaking and entering. He’s not the forgiving type.”

The Fates were in her favor today. Gaston had the grace to look a little concerned over this, and glanced around with rabbit-fast eyes as if he could spot the imp prowling in the shadows.

“Fine. But this isn’t over, Belle. I’ll find a way to save you!”

Quite blasé, the russet haired woman watched her fiancé (ex-fiancé?) run out. It bothered her a little that Gaston was the only living being besides Mr. Gold that she’s seen since her employment. It was suspicious. Belle wanted to know how the town was coming along, if Mr. Gold was truly keeping his end of the deal. If not, then Belle would gladly march right on out of here!

It wasn’t so, that, regarding Mr. Gold’s absence, he should stay away long. The imp had returned not twenty minutes since Gaston’s departure. 

And why wasn’t anyone else in the streets? Walking, working—being about like usual? The streets were deserted…

She sniffed, reaching down to pick up her broom.

“Where _is_ everybody?” Belle asked herself.

~.~.~.~.~

Mr. Gold came back fifteen minutes later.

He came in as cold and as foreboding as the bitter chill of the late autumn wind, stepping over the semi-clean threshold with a visibly hunted expression. His brows knitted together as he studied the glassless doorframes, and the explicable lack of glass. The imp did not say anything.

“I tried to get all the glass up,” Belle said, sitting at the stool behind the front counter, her right heal on her left knee. She couldn’t find bandages, so she had ripped a section off her blouse to made do. It was already speckled with blood. “We also need more trash bags. I put the full ones by the door, outside.”

Mr. Gold still said nothing; he just stood there brooding, staring between her and the doorframes as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. 

“Mr. Gold, sir?”

He sniffed. Stepping farther into the pawnshop, the imp kept his eyes on her as he neared. “You… stayed put.”

“Yes.”

“You… didn’t leave.”

“…Yes?”

The imp’s face contorted into a frown. “Oh. Okay then.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

They stared at each other before the imp began to move. It was like he suddenly had a personality change, and spun around on his heal, keeping his back to her. “That’s good, that! Good, very good! Now I won’t have to waist my time destroying your little town. Fabulous. Now, let’s fix this—“ suddenly peppy, the imp waved a hand over the door’s direction. In a cloud of purple and red, the glass doors returned to their former glory, if not better. On the window and front door, there was a new sign that read:  


MR. GOLD  
ATTORNEY  
PAWNBROKER  
&  
ANTIQUE DEALER  


“Oh my,” Belle emitted softly, still thrown by the display of his magic. Gold clucked at her, spinning back. He motioned her closer, standing in the fading light of the evening. 

“Come on, dearie, come on. We haven’t got all the time in the world.”

“What?” she asked, hopping off the stool. The ex-librarian limped to him, making sure to keep her weight on her left leg. Lord above, he better fix it. 

Mr. Gold reached out and grasped her forearm and tugged her along. She stumbles over the doorframes, confused. 

To her surprise and delight, she saw people this time. Some, at least. Across the street was Archie the therapist, walking his dog Pongo. He appeared happy enough, but once his eyes fell on Belle and her boss, he pauses, stared in obvious fear, and turned around to leave. Swiftly.

“Where are you taking me?” Belle asked, limping as she was lead outside. It felt like forever since she saw the sky above her head!

“Home, my darling lassie,” Mr. Gold twittered. “You are to make me tea.”

“ _Home_?”

“Yes, home! Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Belle sniffed, confused to the point of silence. 

Mr. Gold led her to the library. The leather-clad imp did so with his hand on the small of her back; a heavy, warm presence she could feel against her yellow blouse. It left her dizzy, and she felt very conscious of her hygiene, at that moment, and wished for a proper shower. In the past week, she had used a washcloth at the skin, whipping away sweat and yuck with lukewarm water and hand soap. Washing her hair was a nightmare, and with no shampoo, conditioner, or even a brush, her hair was no better kempt than a rat’s nest. 

Her boss guided her to her apartment, and waved a hand over the lock. The door opened with a snap, and Belle found herself being pushed inside. She was just dying to ask why, but it was probably better if she didn't... “Off you go then, make us a nice cuppa—what the hell happened to your foot?”

Belle blushed. She looked down at her pitifully wrapped heel and helplessly dropped her hands against her hips. “I stepped on glass.”

“You stepped on glass,” he deadpanned.

“Yes.”

The imp wrinkled his gray-green crooked nose. Sighing, he mutters, “Witless girl.”

Suddenly, Belle’s heel burned in a similar way her hand felt when she cut it with the broken teaset, and tickled until it felt fine. She leaned down to untie her wrap, and unsurprisingly, the cut was gone. She smiles up at him as she straightens. 

“Thank you, Mr. Gold.”

He sneered. “Tea. Now. Away with you.” The imp made an impatient shooing gesture with his taloned hands as he flicked the light on, stomping loudly over to the couch, where he shoved a pile of books off and dramatically laid down with a bounce. Belle made her way to the kitchen and puttered around to made his evening tea, watching him from the corner of her eye as he picked a book up off the floor.

As the imp flicked through _Jane Eyre_ , the young woman desired to break the silence. “So, Gaston came by today…” Belle began, knowing he probably wouldn’t answer her if she asked why they were here and not at his shop. Appeasing to Gold’s whims got him a little less agitated, but being overly submissive was not entirely in Belle’s nature. So she skirted the subject of his sudden change of heart and turned to what happened around this afternoon’s incident. 

“What—your knight in shining armor? Why?”

“He thought you’d turned me into a sex slave or something.” Gold snorted loudly. “He also said that you’d taken over the town.”

“Piss on that,” snapped the imp crudely. “Madam Mayor and I had a meeting with the town today. Things are-a changing, Miss French. All because of you.”

“What do you plan on doing with the debt?” she asked, putting the kettle on the stove, turning the heat on. She went to her fridge to see what was inside, and to her disappointment, found it empty. The appartment was stuffy, now that she was studying the place. What had her papa done, once Gold left with her last week? Where was he? Was he okay? 

“The diner, what’s it called again?”

“Granny’s...”

“Yes, yes, Granny’s! They’ll be giving me free food for three years. Yum. Some of the townspeople will just hand me things, material things, collaterally. Others will give me free access to other necessities. The doctors, for example, will give me complete access to patient files, medical equipment, and juicy gossip if the need arises for whatever reason.”

“ _Patient files_? But that’s il—!“

“Is anything _really_ legal here, Miss French? Ogre Loan is nothing legal, but has anyone done anything to stop them besides you? Noooo.”

Belle sighed. Shaking her head, she presses, “But why would you want access to such confidential information?”

“I don’t know!” The imp eerily giggled, cheekily licking his fingers to turn a page in the book.

They bantered for a little longer, until the kettle began to squeal and Belle rushed to retrieve it. She seeped the tea and brought it over to the living room, setting it on the coffee table. As she began to poor his tea in one of her teacups, the cup suddenly poofed in a cloud of violet, and in her hands was the same cup she’d chipped a week ago.

Gold shrugged when she looked at him askance. “It’s my cup, dearie.”

Shaking her head, Belle sat beside him and the two share a pleasant, quiet tea.

The imp waggles a finger in her face, suddenly, and captured her attention like a moth to a flame. “Miss French, tell me something. Do you know a man named Jefferson Paige?” 

Belle swallowed a mouthful of tea before answering. “Yes, sir. I know his daughter Grace, too. They come by the library sometimes.”

He nods approvingly. “Excellent! Tomorrow morning, you are to go find and ask him to show you the stack of files I requested from him today. He’ll give you a list, then, and I want you to go to each address recorded and check its progress—after, of course, you give me that stack of files from him. Before you leave to go run again we’ll have our tea time.”

“Woah, wait—I’m going out tomorrow?”

“Yes, girl,” Gold rolled his reptilian eyes. “How many times must you gawk like that? Close your mouth. Don’t want to swallow flies now, do you?”

“I’ll stop gawking when I understand!” she exclaimed, but without a bit of malice toward the imp. “I thought you wanted me to set your shop to rights. I’m barely half ways done, after a week!”

Gold puffed his cheeks out, wringing his wrists out in frustration. “You’re my lackey, remember? You do as I tell you to do. And I’m telling you to steward for me tomorrow.”

Belle slumped in her seat. Gods, she didn’t understand him! One moment he’s hissing and spitting curses at her, the next he’s bringing her back home and healing flesh wounds. What was she to make of him?

She watched him drink tea. The imp held a pinkie up, like some gentlemen from Victorian times. And he sat so casually, so carelessly. His boot-clad feet were propped up on the coffee table, by the tray. They were coated in mud, and the leather here was cracked and visibly worn from long use. Did his boots always seam so tight? Did he ever take them off? When he went over their terms and conditions, Gold said she would “launder” for him. She hadn’t seen him change outfits at all, so far.

“You find my boots handsome, Miss French?”

Startled, Belle shot him a confused look as she met his gaze. Did he just make a _Jane Eyre_ reference? Smug imp, he did! Gold smirked, cocksure. “No," she said, brazenly. "But, do you ever take them off, Mr. Gold? Can you?”

Gold tilted his head, as if he never thought about it. Fingering his chin and looking quite thoughtful, he says, “Yes, I can. Just what’s the bother? They’re just boots. Not knickers.”

She blushed. “I know that. But do you, like, ever clean them? Maybe you’d be more… influencing, if you had clean clothes.”

Gold’s mouth hung open a little, but his eyes grew hard, and brows were knitted together in dubious doubt. “And who says I need help _influencing_?”

Before Belle could gather her wits or an apology for assumption, a flash of Gold’s magic blinded her in a cloud of purple, and a heavy weight was suddenly in her lap.

Looking down, she found a pair of very dirty, very tall, very leather lace-up riding boots.

And Gold’s bare feet were left on the table.

“Oh,” she said, surprised.

The imp did not have feet like a human. Oh, no, no, not at all. Gold had two… toes? of sorts, something fused between raptor feet and cloven hooves. Both talons/cloven hoof claw were black and sharp, formed to a delicate point if he clenched the toes together. Just like a cloven hoof, but each toe was very long, a very sharp. 

“Isn’t cloven hooves the sign of the Devil?” Belle asked, unthinkingly. The imp kicked his head back and laughed; a deep, belly laugh. 

“Maybe. The tail adds to the effects too.”

Belle’s mouth ran dry. “You… you have a _tail_?”

“Mhmm—keep glamor on it so people can pay more attention to _me_. Ya know, the whole ‘ _My eyes are up here, mister_ ’, kind of thing.”

She had to force a giggle back at that. It made her think of boobs for a woman, but thinking of Gold having breast was a very hilarious image. "So, is your name Lucifer? Satan? Beelzebub?"

"Pfft. No."

Still, Gold didn’t let go of this “glamor” of his, and just stood up and shucked off his coat and vest. Standing before her in nothing but skin-tight breeches and a silken shirt was a little distracting. The hoofed imp smirked at her. “Launder away then, dearie. And Lords above, please, shower and change after. You’re starting to look a little ratty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously guys, prompt me. Like, anything, don't be shy about it.


	7. Me and Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle spends the morning with Gold, goes to town, sees Jefferson, meets the Mayor, and gets a little woozy once she discovers something curious. The question still remains--Does the Spinner have biological family?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nropay said:  
> I'm here to send you a prompt!! Mr.Gold PA!Verse :: Regina met and have a talk with Belle. maybe she almost slip Rumple's name but he interrupt them. Or Rumple and Henry fluffy moment with Belle accidentally walked in. And I have a question. Is Bae / Neal in this verse? Is he alive? I give you an extra points if he alive and show up when Rumple leave Belle alone at the shop then demand to know what his father up to. Oh! Did I mentioned that love this story! Wait for more!

Everything felt so much better after a nice, long shower. And that’s exactly what Belle would do in the morning. 

Last night, Belle staid up until well past 8:00, cleaning her boss’s clothing. His shoes, she had learned, could only be cleaned with the scrub brush she used on the shower tiles in her bathroom. Since they were leather, she was much more at a loss as of what to do, and (thank Gods she still had Internet in her apartment) a Google search on how to clean leather boots said she was to remove the laces (which took forever), and use a brush carefully with something called saddle soap. After a very one-sided conversation with Gold to ask for the saddle soap, she spent the next hour scouring and conditioning the damn things. It took a very patient and firm hand to remove the dried dirt and muck off Gold’s boots. Belle sat in the bathroom for what felt like an eternity, perched on the toilet lid as she cleaned the filthy things, one at a time, with a generous amount of saddle soap on each, carefully cleansing each boot. 

If that wasn’t enough, she had to do the same thing with his coat. Abraham, Issac, and Jacob! How much leather did the imp had to wear!? 

“Having fun?” the same blasted imp crooned from the bathroom’s doorway, smirking as he leaned against the frame with his arms and ankles crossed. He was still barefoot, and those claw-like cloven hooves were very, very distracting. Lord knows how long her attention span might last if the imp let her see his tail. Did he have wings, too?

Belle gave him a “ _are you kidding me?_ ” look, slumped over his jacket that was laid across her lap with his shiny clean boots by the door. He made no attempt to retrieve them, just continued to watch her like a hawk. 

“Can I ask why we’re here?” 

“It’s much more cozy,” he stated stiffly, uncrossing his ankles and giving his feet claws a wiggle. “So nice to feel carpet under your toes. None of that click-clack on hardwood.”

“So we’re here so you can rub your stinky feet—hooves—things—all over my floors?”

Gold smacked his chest in mock offence. “Miss French, are you implying I _stink_?”

Knowing he was teasing, she sighed as she held back an eye roll, and just turned back to his coat. Without the saddle soap, Belle mentally remarked, Gold’s coat had smelled far from unpleasant. It was rather nice, actually. Very masculine. 

“No, I’m just tired, sir. May I sleep in my own room tonight? Or will you lock me in a closet again?”

The imp’s cheek twitched, and his white-less eyes bored into her own blue ones. His expression was blank, but then again, she couldn’t properly see him from the corner of her eye. “You may. Sleep in your own room, that is.”

“Do you want me to pull the sofa bed out?”

“Huh?”

“The sofa. It pulls out into a bed.”

Gold snorts, shaking his head and rubbing his neck. This was the most casual Belle had ever seen the imp. “I don’t need to sleep, dearie.”

“Oh.”

The imp let out a curious a sound that was something between a hum and a grunt. Twinkling at her a bit awkwardly, he said, “Well. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He turned on a hoof and trotted away, wordlessly singing some tune Belle was unfamiliar with. Sighing yet again, the young woman turned back to her current objective, and did not stop again until she was finished.

Belle was pleased with the fruits of her work. Belle felt a little need to gather the boots and coat and show off the shiny newness of them to her peculiar boss, but decided against it, unsure of how he would react. The imp was distantly polite one moment, and a menacing nuisance the next. She could never tell which mood would suit him nor when, much less comprehend his rapid thought process. Sometimes, during that past week, Belle suspected that the imp was on a whole different level than her own, and was therefor prone to temperamental humor toward finicky mortal ways. It made his actions explainable, if this theory of hers was true, but she refused to let it give Gold an absolute pardon for his hostilely baleful behavior. 

She exited her little washroom with her feet dragging, going to the front, to where Gold was, no doubt. Sure enough, the imp was there, lounging on her sofa as if he owned the place. But, then again, he sort of did own the place.

“Oh looksee, looksee, what do we have here?” Gold sang, tossing his her book aside as if it were nothing, and swaggered to her with a gleam in his strange eyes. He lifted his coat off her offering elbow, on which it was lain, and shook it out with a very visibly pleased expression. “Beautiful, my Belle, simply beautiful. Your work lives up to your name!”

Flushed from his unexpected compliment, Belle nodded her head and handed his newly clean things to him. He smirked as he took the boots too, keeping his eyes pinned on her as he set them to the side. “Try not to look so peaked, my child. Eat something—I can’t have you pass out on me this early on. We haven’t even gotten to the enslavement of the town’s orphans. Shame if you were to miss it.”

She knew it was a joke, so she let herself huff out a laugh at his attempt to either amuse or irritate her. “I would have,” Belle stated, eyes heavy with exhaustion. “But I’m fresh out of everything except tea and baking mixes. And I’m very tired.” When was the last time she had proper sleep? It wasn’t before she was eternally employed to Gold. Sure, sleeping on the floor with nothing but moth-bitten clothing that even Granny might find outdated to use as a cot did nothing to improve her sleep cycle, but she had slept with a better state of mind, knowing her father and her people were going to be okay. She was actually a worse sleeper, before Gold paraded into her life. But when she still owned herself, Belle slept in a real bed. 

Gold tilted his head, eyes big and owlish and eerie, staring into her depths like an apt soothsayer. Maybe he was a soothsayer, and who really knew? Storybrooke had believed the Spinner to be an old wives’ tale. If he could see into her future, would he cause means to alter it? Did he know whither her future was bright and hopeful? Or was it too glum for him to mention it to her?

Belle shook her wild thoughts from her mind. When she was tired like now, she imagined the impossible. But wasn’t anything possible to this infamous imp before her? _Ahh, there I go again_!

“Mmm, then we’ll just have to remedy that!” cheered the imp, and he snapped his fingers, and Belle felt the woosh of magic behind her, and turned to the breakfast bar, where something was transported there. It was a plate of steaming lasagna. The smell, she deducted, was no doubt the smell of Granny’s homemade lasagna. 

“Thank you,” she said, managing to smile thankfully at her boss. He clucked, patting her back awkwardly. 

“Like I said, dearie, can’t have you swooning. Eat. I demand it of you.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Don’t get cheeky,” Gold grumbled, but laughter teetered the corners of his eyes.

~.~.~.~.~.~ 

Belle ravished her dinner (and very late lunch) like a wolf who hadn’t seen food in days. Only pausing between bites to sip from a tall glass of water that, most definitely, wasn’t there when she sat down to eat, she didn’t bother to make note of what Gold did during this time. 

She finished with a loud, gratifying sigh as she patted her forming food baby. That lasagna should have been illegal, how good it was! Belle had feasted upon the little offerings of muffins and other baked goods for a whole week, and goodness did she have a whole new appreciation for real food! No more sweets for this girl, Belle decided. 

As she prepared to get up, the whole exhaustion spell came back full force, nearly knocking her off her feet. Luckily, she wasn’t alone, and a bossy, yet tentative hand reached out to grasp her elbow. “My, you’re as graceful as a drunken swan. Come, let’s get you to bed…”

Belle didn’t really care at this point, knowing the imp would not do something to outright physically harm her. And, if he was smart, which she knew deep down he was probably terrifyingly brilliant, he would mean for her to have a good night’s rest, so she could “steward” for him tomorrow.

So she yawned and let him guide her. Gold made a curious little chirp when she pulled her elbow back from his palm, only to then grasp his forearm. He was wearing a wonderful silk shirt. After that, Belle’s mind became foggier, and all she could recall after this night was Gold dropping her into her bed, ordering her to sleep well, and if she didn’t, he’d have her tied up by her toenails. She only giggled at that, and then quickly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep without trouble.

~.~.~.~.~

Belle was awoken sometime in the early morning, with Gold hovering over her with a cocksure grin, showing off his stained and sharpened teeth like a smiling crocodile. His breath, smelling of his usual spicy zest, ghosted over her morning clammy skin. Heavens above, why was he so close? Why so happy? Who in their right mind would be this happy in the morning? “Good morning, dearie!” he cheered with a sickening amount of good humor, pushing against her right shoulder. She glowered at him with a shameless contempt. 

“No,” she whined, pulling her cocoon of blankets around her more snuggly, hoping he would get the hint and bugger off. Sweet God, did sleep sound like the most glorious thing right about now.

“Pshaw, Miss French,” Gold simpered, shaking her shoulder again. He ignored her whine of protest again, and patted her on the head, slightly rustling her rat-nest hair around. “Get up, lass,” he tried again, when the second time failed to rouse her. Belle went on ignoring him, especially when he did nothing to prompt her from sleep a third time. She was already sinking down and down and down into another blissful coma-like rest, when suddenly—

“Ahh!” Belle squealed with unanticipated panic, as her deliciously warm nest of comforters were _torn_ off from her, quick and sudden like a bandage! “Fuck me,” she exclaimed impulsively as the biting cold of her room pierced her skin like thousands of tiny icepicks, stabbing her veins with what felt like pure rime. Officially the most uncool move, really.

“Ahh!” Gold repeated her; a bottomless aura of uncontainable excitement radiated off of him. His smile grew in size, and a slightly perverted expression of delight fell across his facial features. “Language, Miss French! If you want to boff with me that bad, really, all you need to do is ask nicely~!”

Gads, she was in no right mind to deal with the imp right now. She glared at him, ignoring his sleazy comment, and pulled her legs over the side of the bed. Her sleep addled mind fuzzed with annoyance and mild confusion, and Belle swayed as she stood. Gold continued to watch her, smirking puckishly as he stepped aside to let her pass. 

Belle went straight to the washroom, ignoring whatever her so called “boss” had to say about her morning grouchiness. She had been well about get up last week, but today, last night, she relished her bed like a dehydrated woman to water. It was just awful Gold did what he did to get her out of bed! 

So Belle answered the call of nature, undressed, brushed her hair, lumbered in the shower, and stayed under the hot water until it went cold. Belle properly cleaned herself, sighing in relief as the dried sweat and yuck from the week before was drained away. She felt _sublime_ to have a clean body again!

She turned the water off and leapt out, grabbing the towel to dry off. She wrapped it around her torso, sat on the edge of her bathtub, and shaved the embarrassingly long hairs on her calves. Smooth legs: one of the small luxuries in life Belle appreciated. After brushing her hair again and getting the majority of the water off, she peaked the bathroom’s door open. “Mr. Gold? Are you out there?” she called out, and was not surprised to feel a little shamed for her behavior this morning. She hoped he would forgive her.

“In here, dearie,” he called from the dining room.

Satisfied he was not within view, Belle scampered out of the bathroom wrapped in her towel and bolted to her room. She locked the door, just for safe measure.

Belle dried her womanly parts again, getting perspiration off, and shucked the towel by the door. Today she was going out. An outfit that was appropriate, as Gold’s secretary, was definitely in order. But she was, most certainly, not wearing anything with a heel. Flats it was, then!

Energized and motivated from a good night’s rest and a nice, long shower, Belle hunted through her closet, and chose a sleeveless blue flare dress that fell just below the knee, accompanied by a thin belt, white tights, and a white cardigan. She wore her pair of black slip-on sneakers. It was definitely going to be a walking day. Might as well be comfy. 

Belle emerged from her bedroom blushing, going into the main room of her apartment. She honestly didn’t mean to snap at Gold, but she was so comfortable in bed this morning. Maybe showing a bit of thoughtful toward the imp would get him to think kindly of her again. 

“Good morning,” she greeted her boss, finding him on the sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table. The imp was dressed in his boots, now, but wore a different leather jacket. This one was a tanned reddish leather, not like scales, but with a high collar and still clearly leather. He was currently watching TV, and the remove was held in his hand, prepared to change the channel. His reptilian eyes shot up to meet hers, and he smirked upon her entrance. He mutes the TV.

“Ditto, my dear. Still desiring a good roll in the hay?”

Blushing a million shades of red, Belle shook her head to deny any reference toward her language upon waking up. “I’ll make tea,” she stated stiffly, turning sharply on a toe to go to the kitchen. 

Gold sniffed. “You’re no fun,” he fussed darkly, slumping in his seat. He turned the sound to the television back on, seemingly having lost his sudden interest in his assistant. Belle stayed silent, too, and prepared their tea, unsurprised to find Gold’s chipped cup on her metal display shelves with the other tea-things. It was surprising, however, to find a new package of tea cookies in the cabinet besides Gold’s preferred brewing leaves. 

She chose to use those with their morning tea, and pulled out the little teacup saucers, where she arranged the cookies around the cup once she poured. Her eternal boss smiled grimly at her once she brought their drinks to the living room. Settling them on the coffee table, she asks, “So, first on the agenda: I’m to find Mr. Paige?”

“Yes,” Gold confirmed, nodding. He gingerly plucked his teacup up along with a tea cookie he sniffed as if concerned was poisonous. “He will give you a package of papers and a list. Bring the package to me, and then you shall go along your merry way to act in my stead. Check on our little townsmen, Miss French, all the collateral and barter-ness and whatnots.”

“Alright,” she said, sipping her own tea. Gold always drank his right out of the teapot, no sugar or cream, whilist Belle preferred a little cream in her cup; she added sugar if the tea was black, but sweeter and lighter teas, like fruit or green or white, she went without. This strange imp beside her liked the black teas, but sometimes he provided her with strong, robust teas that tasted of rose hips and fruits. This morning, the brewing leaves that were in the tin he gave her (it would be magically filled with whatever tea Gold wanted) were something of the fruitier type. “D’you know that “Paige” is not his real surname?”

Belle blinked owlishly at him. “It’s not?”

“No. It’s Madden.” 

“Why did he change it?”

“That I’m sworn not to tell a soul. I’m assuming he told you of me, hmm?”

“He did, yes sir.”

“Then you shouldn’t be surprised I know a bit about the man. I’m telling you this incase he gives you difficulty. Or want him to do something. Either way, he’ll listen to you. I doubt you’ll need to dangle this information before him just yet, but anything can happen. You’ll also need to know his actual surname for later use~” he said, delicately sipping tea. In a sing-song voice, he added, “That’s all.”

Gulping, Belle nods and took a sip of her tea. It was warm as it slid down her throat and into her belly. The cookies were sweet, but not “You will be at your shop, later?”

“Most certainty.”

Seeing he was not going to be very chatty this morning, Belle turned her attention to the TV. It was on the news channel, playing Good Morning Storybrooke. 

Belle nearly spat her tea out seeing a picture of a what looked like a town meeting, dated yesterday, with none other than the Spinner himself at the stage, with the Mayor and the Sheriff beside him. Sidney, the town’s main reporter, was talking about the changed overcoming Storybrooke. “ _…to be expecting our town’s own librarian, Isabelle French, to come to each household and place of business as an… overseer. So I suppose we’ll be finally seeing the face Ms. French again, and if she is truly in thrall to Mr. Gold. Will we be facing a whole new generation for Storybrooke? For better or for worse? It seams only time will tell. This is Sidney Glass, signing off on Good Morning Storybrooke, live from city hall…_ ”

Belle turned to Gold. He sat there silently, with all the innocence of a demon. He purced his lips in thought. “What was that?” Belle demanded, without too much reprimand in her voice. 

“What was what?”

“They—“ she stuttered out, not sure how she felt. “—they know? You told them I’m your P.A. already?”

“Of course,” Gold said, annoyance marring his expression. He said it as if it was obvious, and she was the slow one. “You’re not exactly what someone would imagine my secretary would be, dearie. Beautiful, yes, but hardly intimidating. If you just showed up somewhere demanding to see their progress on getting me my collateral, do you think everyone would believe you?”

“No,” Belle relied thoughtfully, understanding his point of view. She was content to settle back down and finish her tea and cookies, but she blushed softly upon recalling Gold’s words. Trying to catch his gaze, she smiled softly and said, “You think I’m beautiful?”

Gold, refusing to meet her eyes, just leered into the distance over the rim of his teacup. “Well, I don’t think you’re ugly.”

Oddly pleased with this comment, Belle returns to her tea, and nibbles on the cookies with a deep thoughtfulness that lasted for most of the day.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Gold tells her that Jefferson would be at Granny’s, awaiting her arrival. Today was a sunny day, despite the cold, and Belle was glad to have worn her tights and cardigan. It was a little hop, skip, and a jump to the dinner, but knowing she would be going a bit of walking later was not a dreaded thought. Her impish boss walked out of her (their?) apartment with her, and the two parted at his shop. The insides were dark, having no one inside, but Belle could have sworn she saw something different about the pawnshop. 

The imp bade her a good day, but not without (not quite) subtly warning her of the consequences should she run away. Belle had no desire to break their deal, though. She was determined to do her job to the max, to be the absolute best secretary the Spinner has ever had or known. 

Invigorated by this, Belle began her journey to Granny’s.

It was wonderful to be outside, seeing familiar faces after a week of being trapped in Gold’s shop, with a clean head and being. Her optimism was grand enough that it only hurt a little when her fellow townspeople gave her a wide berth. It began to bother her when some people actually approached her, and asked with pitying eyes if she was all right. And no one offered to help.

Granny’s was abuzz, just like it always had been. People sat at basically any available surface, eating and drinking, talking with boisterous voices with friends, or sensual whispering with a lover. She spotted Aurora and her fiancé Phillip, hip-to-hip on a booth side with Jasmine and her boyfriend Al. Mrs. Lucas, who was at the front counter with a customer, was tapping away at the cash register while speaking seriously. Her granddaughter Ruby was flirting with Dr. Whale at one of the tables, and her co-worker Ashley, aka Ella (it’s a long story why), was scooting around and handing drinks to customers. Belle’s other friends, Ariel, Jane, Mulan, and Tiana, were all at a booth, speaking adamantly to each other. Alice, a nineteen-year-old who frequented the library, was sitting with her older sister Lorna.

And there was Jefferson Paige (Madden?), sitting with his daughter at a booth in the corner, both of them drinking what looked like strawberry smoothies. 

But it didn’t stay lively for long. For the very second Belle walked in, determined and goal-minded, every diner patron paused and looked up or turned around to look at whomever had come in, and everyone who saw her froze as if someone said a terrorist attack had blown up one of the wonders of the world. 

“Hi,” Belle managed to squeak out, blushing from the amount of attention. No one had ever stared at her like this before. Ella, who was pouring coffee, was so shocked at Belle’s arrival that the stream of hot liquid stopped filling a customer’s cup and went to the floor instead. That was the only sound for a total of five seconds.

“Belle!” her friends, and those who knew her, exclaimed and shot up from their seats, dashing to come to her. She stuttered from the amount of welcome, so very warmed to know they had missed her. In a blurry moment, Belle was hugged and kissed and petted; her friends demanded to know her wellbeing, and she tried to answer, but someone else asked her another question before she could speak. Bombarded with the crowded interrogation, a loud voice broke out and interrupted them.

“Girls!” screamed Granny, slapping a cleaning cloth onto a counter, giving them all a beady eyed glare. “Give the poor girl some space!”

Like that, the little crowd around her loosened, and Belle sighed in relief once everyone backed off a little. She moved so she wasn’t standing in the doorway, giving Jefferson a nod, and he smiled sympathetically back. He discreetly patted a messenger bag beside him.

“I’m fine, guys, really,” she said, using her hands to gesture, as if that would ease their concern. “Mr. Gold is just my boss, and he has done nothing to hurt me. Yes, I am his… secretary, and I’m actually here on business.”

“That sounds like he told you to say that,” Mulan grumbled from the group, watching her suspiciously, but without malice. Only worry. Belle gave her a watery smile, hoping the tears she felt threatening to fall would stay dormant. 

“I can swear on my life, Mulan, that he hasn’t. I’d love to catch up, but—“

“—she’s here for me~” Jefferson, bless that man, came to her rescue, and hooked his arm around hers. Grace, finishing her smoothie, grabbed the messenger bag with an adorable grunt, and followed her father. “Sorry, ladies, she was right about being here on business. Miss French?”

Belle smiled. “Yes. I’m afraid I have to go.”

They groaned with disbelief, looking very close to keeping her against her will. But Jefferson was with her, and shooed the females aside as they made their way out before anyone could so much as say stop.

“Oh my God,” Belle breathed, as the three trotted down the steps to Granny’s, and away from her friends. “I thought they would eat me alive.”

“Ha! And Gold hasn’t?”

Belle rolled her eyes, keeping her arm in his. “You yourself know he’s harmless, Mr. Paige.”

“Pfft. Only to those he likes.”

They made their way to a bench and sat down. Grace sat to Belle’s left, Jefferson to her right, and the little girl beamed at her and commended that the library was close, and asked when Belle would have story time again. Belle didn’t know, and was hurt to think she couldn’t read to the children again. She knew many of the kids of Storybrooke: Grace Paige, Henry Mills, Ava and Nick Zimmer, August Gappetto, Lily Draco—they all loved to come to the library, and even some of the teens, like Alice Kingsleigh, Emma Nolan, Wendy and George Darling, had grown up practically by Belle’s side! She loved them all, truly, had dreaded the idea of never reading to them again. Surely, Gold would give her breaks? Could she read to them then?

“Now,” Jefferson interrupted before Belle could answer the little girl, “I’ve got everything Ole Dragonhide wanted.”

“Wonderful,” Belle beamed as she watched the man get the bag from his daughter and dig around in it. He produces a neon-pink multiple pocket folder and stapled packet made of high-quality paper. Smiling from ear-to-ear, Jefferson hands her the two items gingerly, patting her hand once she grasps them with both hands.

“Send him my regards,” Jefferson said to her, smiling kindly as she made her way to stand. She beamed back at the man, and got a hug from little Grace before she began her walk back to Gold.

~.~.~.~.~

“—then we’ll melt the bars, and burn all our white confections to a crispy outside, and a sticky-gooey inside. Sugary-sweet victory in a cracker, son.” 

This was all Belle caught with her ears before halting in the brand-new doorframe of Mr. Gold’s establishment. She didn’t really process what was said in return to this quote, for the sight of the store arrested her eyes more than the horrifying possibility of what whatever this person meant. The place had, indeed, changed drastically since yesterday. 

It was immaculate. The shop held a sophisticated décor that screamed wealth and fascination. Shiny waxed floors, intriguing displays, carefully placed lighting, clean air—everything Belle planned on making. Her jaw nearly fell to the floor if it wasn’t for the greeting from a public figure she only knew from afar.

“Why isn’t it Isabelle French,” said a slightly condescending croon. Belle’s eyes shot from the store’s new design to the source of sound, and widened upon them. It was Mayor Mills, the queenly raven-haired woman who had been in office since Belle and her father came here from Australia years ago. The mayor was wearing a sleek black business suit, with perfect make-up and a smart hairdo to show off a set of sparkling diamond earrings. Belle had never known the mayor personally, but according to her friends, the mayor was a very patronizing individual whom dripped regal superiority. She also knew that the mayor was Henry’s mother. 

Henry was a very sweet young boy, a little over ten years old, who was present to all of Belle’s story times at the library. He was particularly fond of fairytales. 

“Madam Mayor,” Belle managed to say without stumbling over her words, clasping one of her wrists before her. With a nervous smile, she adds, “What a surprise!”

“A surprise indeed—and please, call me Regina,” Mayor Mills—Regina—said, each word slow and sharp yet. A curious curiousness was gleaming in the older woman’s dark eyes, and pinned Belle to the spot. She felt frozen in place, and didn’t dare move until given leave. “I was so worried when I heard you had made a deal with the Spinner. My son is heartbroken, ever since the library was close.”

Cringing, Belle blushed with an embarrassed shyness. She felt as if she should be ashamed for keeping the library closed this long, but was it in her power? No. If the mayor confronted Belle because she wanted the library back open this badly to, she could have hired a new librarian. “Y-Yes, I—“

The mayor suddenly smirked, and lifted a delicately manicured hand to pat Belle’s shoulder. The older woman laughed, “I’m only teasing, my dear! Don’t take everything so seriously.”

Belle laughed too, but awkwardly and unsure of herself. 

“I just wanted to see for myself,” the mayor went on, “and make sure you were alright. Your father—…the florist..?—has sent me a few messages regarding your situation. If your impish employer had been anyone else, well, I would have not hesitated to step in. But you understand.”

“I do,” Belle said, her feathers slightly less ruffled. “This was my choice, though, and I won’t break that.”

The mayor tilted her head. Her dark honey eyes were studying Belle without an ounce of shyness, looking at her as if the younger woman was a fascinating new species waiting to be studied. It made Belle squirm and desire to leave. Swiftly. “I never would have pegged someone like you to sweeten up ole Ru—“ 

“—Rabble-rousers!” exclaimed none other than her impish boss, who leaped from behind the curtain separating the main room from the back room. He was a familiar, and somehow comforting, sight to Belle’s eyes. Maybe it was because he was the only face she saw for seven whole days, but she was still eased by his appearance. Especially since Belle decided in that moment that she would choose Gold over Mayor Mills any day. With his usual eerie bird-like twitter, Gold continued with, “Rabble-rousers! Yes! Miss French is just what any raving crowd needs to settle down, isn’t she?”

The mayor, without an ounce of fear, turned to the imp with a confused expression. Belle was helpless, confused, and watched the two approach each other as if they were well acquainted. Wouldn’t the mayor have a grudge against the imp? Being a sorcerer and all? “That was fast,” the mayor said with plain observation.

The imp clucked, “We went over the prestigious battle plans for this Friday.”

Before Belle could think that the imp and some evil conspirer were planning war, a tiny figure came bounding out from behind the curtain, holding a big leather-bound book. 

It was Henry.

“Belle!” the young boy cried in excitement, his face breaking out into a delighted smile. He was visibly giddy, and could not put his book down fast enough on the counter before hurtling toward the russet-haired girl like a rampaging puppy. His arms flew around her waist, squeezing tightly with palpable glee. Stumbling, Belle wheezed as the air was quite literally crushed from her. “I’m so happy to see you! I don’t see you at the library anymore—where have you been? Why isn’t the library open? Grandpa says you’re gonna be his new helper. I sometimes help him on the weekends if he sleeps over. Does this mean you’re gonna sleep over too, sometimes? Sometimes we play wizards like in Harry Potter. Are you gonna play wizards with us, too? And can we read some of the stories in my new storybook? Grandpa got it for me this week as an early birthday gift! I—”

“ _He-Henry—_!“ Gasping, Belle miraculously managed to regain her balance, and gingerly wrenched her arms from Henry’s vice like hug to return the affection. His mop of black hair, just like his mother’s, was thick and luxurious in her hand when she brushed his bangs back. He had a lovely set of green-hazel eyes. Once she got her breath back, she said, “It’s good to see you too, Henry—Aaah, wait. You have a Grandfather?”

“Yeah! He’s—“

“—Me, of course,” groused the imp, interrupting.

Belle felt like a douse of cold water had been poured on her. What? A grandfather? Gold was a grandfather? A _grandfather???_ How? Why? Since when!? Belle looked from the young boy before her, to the mayor who was smirking as if she knew a delicious secret only she was privy to, and then to the imp; the gray-green mottled imp with bad teeth and a hawkish nose and a crooked smile and an a eerie giggle and smelled like magic and money and autumn; the same bloody imp who owned Belle’s future, who was stared back at her as if she was the dumb, silly filly she was definitely feeling like right now. What had she missed? 

“Well, I guess this settles it,” Gold said and turned away from the group with a graceful flick of his wrist and fingers. His shoes squeaked against the waxed floors, gliding effortlessly with the pleasant leathery scrunch of his clothing. He pointed to the book at the counter, and in a purple glittery cloud the book levitated toward them, and hovered it close to Henry, who held his hands out happily as it dropped into his hold. “We’ll come around six.”

“Perfect,” sniffed the older woman, who held an elegant hand out to her son. Henry beamed and took his mother’s hand, and didn’t stop smiling at Belle or Gold. With the click-clack of the mayor’s heels and the squeak of Henry’s sneakers, they swept out of the store in a fashionable sashay and boyish skip. She caught Belle’s eye before exiting. “Until next time, Miss French.”

“Bye, Belle! Bye, Grandpa!” saluted a peppy Henry, who left with his mother and the big leather book under his free arm. Belle, still stuck dumb, watched the two leave until she could no longer see them.

“Ahh, the bittersweet pains of family. What of you, Miss French? Are your family gatherings a pain in the arse, too?”

“Is she your daughter?”

The question jumped out of Belle’s through without thought, but she did not feel shy of asking. A near-violent bafflement over came her, dripping her heart and mind, nailing her feet in place. She clutched the packet and folder to her breast, and shamelessly stared at the imp as if he were the wisest, most perplexing being in the universe. And to Belle he was. It had never crossed her mind that Gold might have physical family, much less a mortal family—well, she didn’t know if the mayor was 100% human, did she? Or Henry, in fact. Were they imps, too? And if indeed Gold had no lack of relatives or want of loved ones, why had he behaved the way he did yesterday evening when Belle accused him of only having the company of snails?

So many questions, so little answers.

“Regina?” Gold questioned with a quirk of an eyebrow, turning his head to look in her general direction without meeting her gaze. “No. But when I first met her she was much more… transportable,” he gestured the cradling of a baby. 

“I thought you didn’t steal babies…?”

“I don’t,” he said with a finishing grunt, slithering close to her. His pin-point pupils ran over the package in her arms, and the imp flashed his ruined teeth. Visibly pleased, he plucked them from her grasp gingerly, flicking through the contents. After a moment, he nods, and hands the packet back to her. 

“T-Tea?”

“Hmmmmmm… Alright,” he drawled dramatically, crooking a talon in a “come-hither” gesture. Still bewildered from the previous events, Belle silently nods and follows her boss to the back. Like the front room, the back room was tidied too, and dust was gone, as was the sound of rats. The table they usually had teatime at displayed their tea-things, with the same kettle from her apartment over a little transportable burner, pot and cups and cookies, creamer spout and sugar bowel; all their tea-things were laid out. And, of course, it wasn’t without Gold’s chipped cup.

Wordlessly, she set out to making their tea. She tried not to stare at the imp as he sat at the table, riffling through the multi-pocket folder and making small sounds of thoughtfulness as he read through its contents. He sat by the lamp, but it was not turned on, for the afternoon’s sunlight lit the room up enough to not need the artificial light. The entire place also smelled like him. She forced herself to not get dizzy.

In her reminiscence, Belle had imagined this before: Mr. Gold having a family. Yesterday led her to believe that he was alone in the world, and somehow that theory made her heart go out to the imp. But now she was learning that Gold was a grandfather. A grandfather! That implied reproduction on his part, and the same to his own offspring, but if the mayor wasn’t his daughter, then was Henry’s father Gold’s son? Was it even possible for an imp to have children with a human? Belle blushed, suddenly, imagining an imp and a human getting it on. The image got ~~sensual~~ worse when she envisioned a certain cloven-hoofed imp fornicating with the same girl Belle saw in a mirror.

“So, Henry is your grandson?” she commented, shooing away the suddenly dirty thoughts. She managed to pour the tea without trembling, and made herself note the dark earthy scent this particular brew made. She slid his cup closer to his side, but he hardly made to pick it up. 

His response was distant; the imp was already a million miles away in his own little world. “A surrogate. Regina was my apprentice, some lifetime ago. Now she governs, and is a mother herself. I visit.”

“Oh,” Belle breathed, pouring her own cup. She added a splash of the cream provided and a cube of sugar, and stirred slowly as her mind raced with her musing. “Do you have many surrogate children?”

“Do you have to be very nosy?”

“No, but I’d like to figure you out, sir. You’re very complex. One moment I think I’m begging to know you, the next I’m discovering something new. Do you have any blood relatives?”

“So very chatty today!” noted the imp with a light trace of annoyance. Was she hitting a nerve? Why was the subject of family such a hot-and-cold topic for him? “If you must hear _something_ , then do clear your schedule for this Friday. We’ll be going to Her Majesty’s esteemed palace for dinner. And s’mores, I think. Henry’s request.”

“Oh! That’s what you two were talking about.” _…then we’ll melt the bars, and burn all our white confections to a crispy outside, and a sticky-gooey inside. Sugary-sweet victory in a cracker, son._ “Ha, I haven’t had a s’more since I was a freshmen. What should I wear?”

“Am I the dictator of your wardrobe, now? Wear whatever you want, my darling lass! Just promise not to tell a soul you may or may not be seeing our great, proud mayor in sweat pants and a tank-top.”

Nearly snorting into her tea, Belle holds back a laugh but cannot contain the amused smile blooming on her face. Gold, too, is amused, and hides his smirk behind his cup. The light hit him well, in here. When he was in the sunlight, his skin seemed more gray and sparkled with gold. Shadows danced across the shapes of his face, now, and it made the imp seem more human. And, to be honest, if Belle looked beyond the oddity of his skin, his facial features could be quite easy on the eyes. Especially when he wasn’t twittering about like a gay fairy, and lacked the wide-eyed soul-stare that unnerved her so. Now, the imp was calm, quiet, and much more approachable. So very interesting. And still so distant.

“You never answered my question, Mr. Gold.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No. Do you have real family?”

He gave her a look that said it in itself. She could almost mentally hear him tell her to keep her nose out of his personal business “Want to know the monster’s weaknesses, eh?” he waggled a finger in her direction, playfully, but his eyes still held a look that Belle was tempted to call a thousand-yard-stare.

“No. I just want to know you.”

He smirked ruefully as he placed his barely-touched tea back on the table. Humming out a tune and breaking the peace between them, he stood up as if weighed by all the gravity in the world, and walked over to a clock on the shelves. As the imp tinkered with its moustache-like face, he breathed, “Time to get back to work, dearie. Be off with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for the notion of Baelfire... Well, you'll see soon enough. XP
> 
> I still need prompts, guys!


	8. For The Price of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian Johns, the local fisherman, doesn't want to pay his due for Mr. Gold. Belle is there to face his drunken fury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tinuviel-undomiel said:  
> MGA prompt: Belle gets hurt by some angry tenant or customer, and Gold (feeling guilty) takes care of her, as well as enacts revenge.

“Just asked for this here tire,” said Mr. Tillman, his hands quivering as he stretched out his arms toward Belle’s, baring a large monster-truck worthy tire. Belle, having already trudged half of the town, had borrowed a red wagon from a friendly group of children to carry a few of Mr. Gold’s barter goods. Several of the townspeople already had things ready to hand over—mostly wares, canned foods, and other materialistic goods, with the curious item here and there. Like a tire from Mr. Tillman.

Why would Gold want a tire?

“Thank you, Mr. Tillman.” Belle accepted the tire, grunting as the huge rubber wheel was transferred into her grasp. Quickly, she let it fall into her wagon, wincing when she heard it clatter against an extravagant vase from Mr. Ansel, the local glassmaker. 

She nodded farewell to the skittish man, albeit a bit awkwardly. 

Her entire trip was, by proxy, the very definition of awkward. So far, every person over the age of maturity had treated her like a leper, skirting away from her if possible. For those who knew her well, like her friends, had attempted to draw her away from her current mission. Belle had declined them, insisting she had to finish her job or her boss might get… agitated. That worked in her favor.

She hadn’t seen her papa yet, surprisingly. She asked Granny when she checked in on her cooking progress (was that even necessary?) if she had seen Belle's father, but the old woman just shook her head, and told Belle that Moe hadn’t been the same since she had gone into her eternal employment to the Spinner.

Belle sighed as she trudged along her path, knowing she had to get at least one more tenant in before returning to the pawnshop. A glance at her lengthy list told her Killian Johns was up next for her inspection. She flopped her folder into the wagon, it making a flat slapping sound as it hit the side of the tire. Truth be told, she was unhappy that today’s work would probably bleed into tomorrow. Before the sun set, she had to return to Gold for evening tea and supper.

Their last little conversation was still swirling in her mind, fresh as spring roses. With thorns.

Mr. Gold often confused her, bewildered her, and downright perplexed her. Sometimes she thought that he liked to bother her so, by being evasive from normal questions. The matter of his family, per say, was still up for grabs. At this point, Belle was positive he had some sort of relative, by blood or otherwise. Her impish boss, however, refused to give her so much as a hint toward his past… Besides it being awfully lengthy. 

Plus, her insides quivered at the thought of returning to him after those… inappropriate daydreams during their afternoon tea.

She blushed a couple shades of red, hurrying her step along the sidewalk. The port was up ahead, with boats swaying in the water and wind. Sails waved, beckoning her to their hulls. 

Her wagon squeaked as she parked it beside the edge of the harbor, where she stepped onto the wooden docks with soft scrapes from her flats. Cold sea air nipped at her reddening cheeks, and she paused briefly to look for Mr. Johns as she breathed into cupped hands, patting her cheeks warm again.

“Mr. Killian Johns?” she called out, walking down a dock leading to the main fishing boat. She hopped onto the wooden ramp, blue eyes watchful. “Mr. Johns? Are you here?”

“Eeh? Who wants to know?” A ragged, slurred reply answered her, and a man somewhat familiar stepped out of the ship’s cabin. He was tall and handsome, with a chiseled, stubbled face that she knew many females would swoon over. She, however, had experience in the handsome department, and had taught herself early on that looks weren’t everything. “Oh, hey there beautiful,” the man greeted, a greasy smile suddenly blooming on his face. He swayed a little, but straightened himself gracefully. “What can I do for you on my humble ship?”

“Hello, Mr. Johns. I’m Belle, Mr. Gold’s PA?”

Johns’ face dropped at this. No longer friendly, he suddenly glared at her passionately. “Oh, hell, what do you want?”

“I’m here to uh, to check on your fishing progress. Mr. Gold said you would be sharing a third of your catches with him each week?” 

With a sneer, the man shrugged and turned his back to her as he marched over to the side of the ship, where a huge fishing net had been suspended in the air over the water. He began to untie and retie certain ropes. Belle was clueless in ship matters, so she had no idea what he was doing. She focused on the creak and groan of the ship as she approached the man. 

“If ya want to see, then look for yourself,” he groused lowly, waving a hand to the waters below. The net, in which he was reeling back, had about a dozen fish were stuck in the netting. One or two were already dead. It would explain the horrid fish smell everywhere.

Water sloshed as he raised the net. “I haven’t got enough to sell for myself, love,” explained Johns with a lecherous expression. “If he wants his goddamn fish, than he can come get them.”

Frowning, she wished she had brought the papers with her on the ship, but they had said that she was suppose to pick up a share of Johns’ fish today. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Johns,” Belle said, wringing her hands together. “I have to bring some with me for Mr. Gold.” She started to wish that Gold had accompanied her on this trip. Things would have gone smoother, with less interruptions or complications. 

Johns turned to her, eyes dilated and red. When he opened his mouth, she immediately smelled a strong wave of alcohol on his breath. “Listen, love, I’ve got to sell these fish to make a living, understand? I can’t give that fucking imp a single one. He can kiss my ass if he says otherwise.”

She gulped. “I don’t want him to bring his wrath here… Neither do you. Please just give me at least a couple. We’ll call it even.”

“No, I got a better idea.” Johns reached out and grasped the collar of her cardigan. His grip was not hard, but she still became acutely aware of their closeness, and how it bothered her in a deeply bothering way. She really wished Gold was with her. “Why don’t we settle our trade in my… cabin, love, and forget the whole thing.”

Disgusted, she stepped backwards and folded her arms protectively across her chest. “I need to leave here with a third of your catches, Mr. Johns.”

Johns’ eyebrows pinched together, and his lips pressed into a thin line. Sighing, he turned his eyes from the fish net to her. Sniffing, he says, “Then take it.”

Suddenly, a tingly sensation overthrew Belle, and she gasped aloud as her hair and clothes began to levitate— _she_ began to levitate—up into the air, floating as if she was in water. Her lungs closed up, it was hard to breath, and then—

 _Splash!_ Belle was thrown overboard midair, landing somewhere against the net. A fish or two slapped against her as she tumbled down into the water, struggling as her sense of surroundings were jumbled together. She hit the water hard, and flailed to swim, to scream, to reach the surface of the water so she could get her breath. But the water filled her mouth and into her nose, forcing her to gag as a mouthful was involuntarily swallowed. She was surrounded in it, blind to direction. The salt of the sea stung her eyes when she tried to open them, and she only saw flashes of murky light.

She tried to swim, but—she couldn’t. Her foot became entangled in the net, trapping her in the momentum of the sea. Panic flooded her veins. She screamed and thrashed to free herself, but her clothes were impossibly heavy wet. All around her was water, but the budding sunset’s orangish light seemed far away above her. 

She kept trying to free herself, but it was futile. Her lungs _**screamed**_ for air, clawing at her throat and torso, swelling like a balloon ready to burst. Muscles in her limbs began to stiffen and twist painfully. _I don’t want to die here!_

As her limbs became weak as she kept fighting the sea, she realized she didn’t just want to get to the surface—she was striving for her very _life_. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to see Papa again, to feel safe in his comforting hug. She wanted to spend time with her friends, the children, at the library—she even wanted to see Gaston again, even if it was just to break off the engagement. Most of all, she wanted to return to Gold when the day ended. She almost _needed_ tell him about the things she did on her trip in town. Belle desired all that and more; the meals they shared and the teatimes they bickered over. The way he tilted his head, or the mischievous glint in his reptilian eyes. His stupid hoof feet. She wished to see it again. Belle was not ready to die… No, not yet…

But, it became hard to move, to think, to move, to swim—

_I am going to die here._

And then all became still.

 

~.~.~.~

 

She was both hot and cold.

Her blue eyes shot open to see a curious sight leaning over her, pressed against her face. A blazing set of inhuman eyes stared back, but her savior pulled away, taking the bit of warmth they had with them. A dark blue sky swirled with purple and orange clouds was all she saw, then, looming above her.

She coughed and sputtered, turning her head downward as a mouthful of salty water was expelled from her body via mouth. It trickled down her chin and neck, bubbly with her saliva. Heaving, she looked around frantically, half expecting to see angels or God Himself. 

“Welcome back, Miss French,” hissed an eerily familiar voice. Belle nearly gave herself whiplash as she turned her head, eyesight falling on her savior.

Her impish boss was crouched besides her, meeting her gaze with an unhappy glower. He was wet from head to toe, with fat droplets falling from messy hair. Atop his head, two stubby horns were visible peaking out of his unruly hair, curled and chipped like a young goat’s horns. Behind him, she realized with a disbelieving gasp, was a long, thin, and wildly flexible tail. At the tip of his tail was a little mop of hair—or fur?—like the end of a lion’s tail—though the base of his tail was seemingly hairless. He told her he had a tail before, but she wasn’t entirely trusting in that claim. Now she knew.

She flicked her eyes from the wet imp to his tail. She looked him dead in the eye, propped up on her elbows. In a strained, raspy voice, she says, “Your tail…” 

Gold raised en eyebrow, but waved a hand over himself until the horns and tail vanished from her sights in a cloud of purple smoke. Glaring, he stands up and grasps her arm. He hoists her up roughly, until she looses balance and falls against his chest.

“That’s all you have to say for yourself? Really, dearie? You nearly drown and all you think about is my anatomy?”

Belle would have said something, but was too tired to bother. She sagged against him, coughing up more salt water. Gold’s leather coat felt nice against her cheek, though, and she let the imp push her forwards. 

They were on Johns’ boat, but the sun was neatly set, and the fisherman was no where to be found. Her boss, however, was right here with her. She did not die, so there was that plus.

With shaky limbs and a quivering jaw, she leaned against one of the imp’s outstretched arms as they were suddenly encased in a cloud of magic, and it swirled around her, suffocating her once again. It did not last, however, and her panic died down as she realized they had magicked to her apartment.

“ _Oh,_ ” was all she could say as Gold suddenly scooped her up in both arms. She pressed her face against his warm neck in as he stormed into the bathroom, and hastily dropped her in the tub. To her shock, she realized it was filling with warm water, and that she was violently shaking from head to toe. Every bone in her body was like ice, but she felt it melt away as the fresh water filled to the brim of the tub. 

With clattering teeth, she was immobile as she watched the imp crouch beside her, and tug at her cardigan and dress. He placed a sturdy hand behind her neck, for which she was thankful for because her entire body felt like jelly. He undertook in ripped off her clothes with detached indifference, but Belle didn’t care anyway—she was just so _cold_.

Naked and mostly unashamed, she sleepily watched him stand up with her wet clothes, and throw them in the sink. He did not leave her alone for long, though, and returned to propping her neck up. 

The warmth slowly crept back into her bones, soothing over burning muscles and knots. She sighed in exhaustion, listening to the sounds of their breathing echo in the small tiled room.

“Dearie,” her boss whispered, his claws warm around her neck. “Who did this?”

Belle stirred to consciousness, nearly haven fallen asleep. She turned toward him, blinking owlishly. “J-J-Johns.”

He barred his jagged teeth, snarling like some agitated animal. If it wasn’t for his hand supporting her neck and head, she was sure he would have magicked off to reap his revenge. She surprised them both when she lifted a dripping wet hand to clasp his other hand, which was dripping the side of the tub.

“No,” she rasped. “No hurt—“

“He tried to kill you,” growled Gold. “He tried to take what’s mine. In my book, that’s punishable by death.”

Belle shook her head, weakly, against his palm. “N-No.”

Gold sighed, and leaned over to grip under one of her arms. She shivered as she was suddenly lifted from the warm water, and mourned the loss. A deliciously warm towel, however, was thrown around her. He helped her step out of the tub, and with baby steps she was led into the living room, where he settled her on the couch. She was still shaking. 

“Hold still for a moment,” Gold ordered briskly, as he kneeled before her on the couch, on the floor. He nestled between her pale, wet legs, staring holes into her midsection. Through her sleepy haze, she slowly became more aware of her nudeness. When she tried to close her legs, to cover up her privates, she only clasped him closer to her. Gold grunted, but said nothing as he placed both hands on either side of her waist. She had no idea what he was doing but didn’t exactly care beyond the fact that she was very tired, and that she was very naked.

A warm tingly feeling spread over her bones, her insides, her tummy. Belle knew it was magic of some sorts. 

They stayed in this position for a full minute. Belle was close to falling asleep, but Gold abruptly let go of her and shot upward. He waved a hand over her, and, through magic, she was dressed in thick winter PJs. A warm blanket was then draped around her, and she was coaxed into leaned against the arm of the couch—which was suddenly cushioned with a few of her pillows. 

“Shh, dearie,” whispered Gold, who placed a hand over her eyes. Happily, she closed her eyes, listening to his strange brogue, which deepened into a soothing tone. She felt the hook of his nose nudge against her cheek. “Let me take care of you, and all will be better in the morning…”

~.~.~.~.~

 

Rumpelstiltskin glared at the sleeping form of his assistant. She lay blissfully unconscious, propped up against two pillows on the touch, with a tiny smile on her plump pink lips. He still remembers the feel of them against his own old ones... Both of her hands were folded over her slight breast, and he watched the rise and fall of her chest with each gentle breath. 

He should have gone with her. He should have kept an eye on her. He should have stayed at the fucking ship long enough to trace the residue of magic he sensed. 

Belle needed someone. And for some ungodly reason, it was _his_ name she had uttered with her last breath. If she hadn't, he would have wondered well into the night where on earth his petite little assistant was, only to discover her dead body washed up on shore. If she had died, he wasn't sure if he'd keep on being landlord of Storybrooke. Well, there _was_ Regina and Henry. In the end it didn’t matter. She had said one of his names. _Gold_. 

He had to return to the dock at some point. However, Belle had suffered a near death experience, a drowning one at that, and she was in no state to be left alone. Realizing this, he paced the small apartment with his hands clasped behind his back. He brooded around her like a wolf on the prowl, snarling at his own dark thoughts. He would make the fisherman pay for his use of magic. For a while Rumpelstiltskin contemplated on calling Regina to come watch her, but he decided against it; one, being that she was probably having dinner with Henry, and two, being that he didn’t want his semi-adopted daughter to snoop about in Belle’s head. He had taught her well in the magic department... maybe a little too well.

Might as well call up one of his other brats! 

When the imp settled on a plan, he magicked his personal phone into existence in his palm. He dialed the desired number. His lackey in England picked up on the fourth ring.

“Rumple!” Squealed Tilly on the other end, and he winced at the shriek of her voice. “I was wondering when you’d call me! How’s Storybrooke? How’s my cousin? Can I come visit? It’s sooooo boring here in London.” 

“Filly,” Rumpelstiltskin groused, sticking a finger into his free ear. “Lovely to hear from you to. And Henry is not your cousin. You two haven't even met... Anyhow, I have a job for you!”

“Oooh, how much are you offering?”

“Twenty.”

“Hmmmm....”

“ _Fourty_.”

“Now we’re talking. Zip me on over, Daddy-O.”

He sniffed, and waved a hand over the space before him. In a cloud of smoke, Tilly, a young blonde girl barely Belle’s age, materialized before him. She held a live rabbit in her arms. 

“Couldn’t leave Tick-Tock there,” Tilly explained, petting the semi-frightened animal. “Dumb and Dumber would have starved him to death.”

“Fine, just watch my assistant.”

“I thought _I_ was your assistant?” Tilly whined, playfully poking out her bottom lip. The imp glared, but shooed her to the couch, where Belle was still sleeping. The girl followed faithfully, her long flaxen hair bouncing behind her. She plopped herself down on the floor beside the couch, soothing her rabbit while shrewdly studying the other female. 

“She nearly drowned. Make sure she doesn’t die. Check her temperature in ten minutes.” He tossed the girl a thermometer. 

Tilly saluted as she caught it. “Okay, whatever you say!”

Rumpelstiltskin nodded as he began to magick out. Tilly knew enough about caring for near-drowning victims so he had comfort in knowing his assistant would be in good hands as he extracted his revenge. Killian Johns would pay the price of his use of magic before the night was over.

Nobody tried to take what was his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's how Killian became Hook. :D
> 
> And yeeees Rumple did mouth-to-mouth CPR on Belle. XD
> 
> Seriously guys, I need prompts... If you want this to still be a prompt-fic, that is! Send me ideas [HERE](https://shadowthecannibal.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> (really, it's not that hard, dears...)


	9. Warm With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle gets pneumonia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Anonymous_ said:  
>  MGA prompt: After Belle's near death experience she's having nightmares. She goes to Gold for comfort. Cue the bed sharing >3 Also, more imp tail lol
> 
> ~.~.~
> 
> *Warning: Rumbelle fluff is so sappy ahead. It gave me 12 cavities. (this is not a joke, I just went to the dentist ]:< {PLEASE FLOSS I HAVE LEARNED MY LEASON})
> 
> We'll also be jumping back into the main plot line next chapter!

An alien sound roused Belle from a deep, dreamless sleep.

It was a loud crunching sound of something hard being grinded between two equally hard objects. Annoyingly so, Belle did not find it easy to ignore and return to sleep.

A headache was beginning to make itself known by throbbing between her eyes and the back of her head, but Belle peeked open one eye to see what was making that horrible crunching sound.

Her TV was on, the volume low, tuned to some cheesy Disney channel show. Sitting in front of the screen was a blonde girl, a stranger to Belle, and was smacking away over a bowl of cereal. She was wearing a black and red plaid shirt, with black bracelets around both wrists. Beside the girl was an abnormally big white rabbit, appearing to be sleeping soundly. The girl paid no mind to Belle who was slowly coming more and more to… When the russet-haired woman made an attempt to sit up, a violent series of coughs suddenly shook her body. 

The girl whipped her head around, with her hair, which fell a little passed her shoulders, flipping around her face. She had a mouthful of cereal in her mouth, not unlike a chipmunk with acorns in its cheeks. 

“Oh, shit, sorry,” the strange girl exclaimed after taking a big gulp, standing up on ripped-jean clad legs. She wobbled for a moment, but managed to hold her bowl of cereal balanced enough to not spill milk onto Belle’s floors. A little gracelessly, the blonde sits her bowl on the floor beside the rabbit, and comes to Belle’s side.

“Hi,” she said, pushing Belle back down. “My name is Tilly, BTW.”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Tilly said, laughing awkwardly. She plopped down next to Belle on the floor, and reached over her to pluck something up from the floor. It was an ear thermometer. 

Belle watched in deep confusion and, oddly enough, physical pain, as the girl checked her temp, and flitted about the dinning and living room like some old mother hen when it was clear the girl was scant legal age. 

“Who _are_ you?” Belle finally said, scooting up to get into a sitting position. Tilly was by her side then, and helped plumped up some of her pillows. 

“Um, _Tilly_? Like, just said that, my dude.”

“No, _who_ are you, as in, where—How—“

“Ah,” Tilly surmised, kneeling by her side again. “I’m the old man’s secretary of sorts, down in Albion. Ya know, England. Straight outta London. You could say I’m his eyes and ears there.”

“T-The old man?”

Tilly kicked her head back and let out a hearty laugh. When she got her breath, she looked into Belle’s eyes with mirth. “Old Man Time, The Spinner, The Crooked Man, Little Rattle Stilt, Tom Tit Tot, Päronskaft, Cvilidreta, Wingless One, Damned Imp, The Beast, The Crocodile, The Man With Two Faces, The Dark One, Deal Maker, Baby Stealer, Mister Gold—Uh, there’s a few more, but if I say one I’ll apparently burn alive or whatever, and the other one he’ll know everything we say with or without me saying it three times, soooooo…”

Belle gave the younger girl a hard stare. Tilly, though, didn’t see it or didn’t care, and hummed innocently about as she fetched a damp cloth from the kitchen. “Thank your lucky stars that you got pneumonia and not secondary drowning syndrome, lady. Should be back on your feet in a couple of days, especially if the old man douses you with more healing magic,” explained Tilly as she pressed the cool beige cloth to Belle’s forehead. The older female gasped aloud as the cloth touched her damp skin, and she noticed for the first time that she felt as if a truck had hit her into tomorrow, accompanied by a feverish, clammy sweat that covered the whole of her body. She felt sticky with her own wetness, uncomfortable in her own skin.

“Where is he?”

“Boss? Dunno. Went to run some errans and left me in charge of you, lady.”

Gulping, Belle nodded and forced her muscles to relax and sink into the pillows behind her. “My name is Belle—Belle French.”

Tilly smiled. “That’s a nice name. Is it short for anything?”

“Isabelle.”

“My ghaw,” Tilly groaned, scooting over to her original spot by the TV. She scooped up the huge rabbit (Belle had already forgotten it) and returned to Belle’s side. “People have these great-ass names, and all I get landed with is _Matilda_. That’s poster-child material shit right there. Please, for your own safety, do not call me anything other than Tilly. I only let the old man do it because if I stab ‘em he only laughs cuz’ it tickles ‘em.”

This miraculously managed to make Belle laugh, and Tilly smirked triumphantly when the older girl did so. The laughs that rocked her petite form was not appreciated, however, she Belle winced as sharp shocks of pain twisted in her chest. It was not long that breathing begun to hurt as well. Belle gave a sad smile to her younger companion, and signaled her discomfort with a touch to her throat.

Blushing, Tilly turned her attention to the suddenly fidgety animal in her arms. “This is Tick-Tock. He’s a time-traveling rabbit.”

Belle quirked an eyebrow.

“Well,” Tilly said haughtily, “it was either that or His Fabulous Fluffy Bumpkins Lord Pocket Watch III.”

~.~.~.~ 

Belle shoot up like a spring, gasping for air as phantom pressure of billions of gallons of water crushed her from every side. Blue eyes wide and bloodshot, she frantically looked around for something, for anything, to anchor her to stay afloat. Beads of sweat trickled down the sides of her temples and the back of her neck, dampening her clothes— _she wearing a silk nightgown?_ —so much that it clung to her form like a second skin. It felt much too tight around her torso, preventing air from entering her hungry lungs. Frantically, Belle grabbed the hem of her nightgown and pulled it over her head, viciously throwing it across the room where it hit the wall and fell down in a fast heap. 

She was still panting, fear trickling the corners of her eyes with tears she refused to let fall, when a clawed, svelte hand suddenly touched the crown of her head.

She whipped around to find a familiar face. Sobbing with relief, she cried out, “Mr. Gold!”

“Yes,” the imp mused, kneeling beside her. “I'm back. Don’t you dare strain yourself.”

Belle swallowed a mouthful of saliva, and nodded in agreement. With a heavy heave, she let herself lie back down. Her body screamed in aches and pains, and her lungs felt too tight and congested. Cringing, she coughed and wheezed, each huff of breath pinching her nerves like a poisonous snake bite.

Since Tilly, she had fallen asleep on the couch, but was relocated to her own room, where she was safe atop her futon, the cotton sheets and blankets and pillows and books all familiar and comforting... She hadn't been drowning again. It had been a nightmare. Besides that, Gold was kneeling beside her with a big black bottle of medicine in one hand, and a cloth in the other. He dipped the cloth into a bowl of water before settling it across her forehead. To her confusion, she felt him lay a sheet across her. 

_Probably because you ripped off your gown like some stripper,_ whispered an shamefully unkind voice in the back of her mind.

The imp said nothing to her nakedness, so she did the same, only keeping her thin, shabby sheet up to her clavicle for modesty. Plus, to her credit, she was burning up and that gown made her feel as if she was in a furnace. It was now, however, that she quickly started to feel cold. _What am I? Hot or cold?_

Belle watched as her employer reached out to tilt her head up, and did not fight him when he gave her a spoonful of horrid medicine. Grimacing, she forced the bitter liquid down her throat in a painful gulp. She smacked her lips then, trying to wash the taste down.

“Here,” Gold said, reaching for a cup of water. She drank that too, with more enthusiasm. When she couldn’t swallow another drop, she turned her head away with a small grunt. 

“Where’ve you been?” Belle asked, her voice raspy. It was blissful once she could lay her head back down on the pillows. Tilting her head up was exhausting in itself.

“Errands.”

“Why?”

“Because errands,” snapped the imp. He gave her a pointed look and slapped the glass of water back onto a little tray beside him. The other items atop the white tray clattered together in the wake of the imp’s flare of impatience.

Gold was wearing all his hard leathers again. They seemed to be made out of either crocodile or dragon skin, again. It brought up what Tilly said earlier within Belle’s mind, about him having so many names. _The Crocodile_ …

“You lied to me.”

The imp quirked an eyebrow, barely giving her a proper look over as he fiddled with items on a tray. He stayed in his spot, on the carpet beside her futon, but said nothing. 

“You said if I guessed your named, you’d let me go. You never said you had a hundred.”

Pursing his lips, he grumbled out, “I see _Filly_ told you my previous nicknames.” He removed the cloth on her head, only to soak it again and return it to her. “Nicknames, witless girl. Nicknames. Not real names. My _real_ name is my _true_ name, of which you do not know, and few dare speak when I am not in their presence, much less in them.” With a flick of his wrist, the imp magically made her discarded nightgown speed-levitate into his hand. He snapped his fingers, and suddenly, Belle was redressed with it. “I do not lie. Remember that.”

“Oh…” Belle felt the tension in her body relax into her mattress, and let it go with a tired sigh. 

It was dark outside, she noted from a glance to the window, and her thin curtains had been closed, but the windows were open to let the cool wintery air inside. She heard the bare tress outside dance in the wind, and each time a gust hit particularly hard against her apartment, the curtains would wave ever so gently. Branches tapped against the glass.

Her attention fell back to Gold when he began to collect his things, placing them onto the tray. He took her damp cloth, but used it to wipe away sweat on her brow. 

It felt lovely. 

With a tightly drawn face, the unusually quiet imp reclaimed the cloth and arose to leave.

“Adam.”

“What, what?” 

“Your name… is it Adam?”

“No.”

She sighed.

“Just shut up and sleep already,” he demanded quietly, before shutting the windows and departing her bedroom.

~.~.~.~

It wasn’t even an hour later before Belle was screaming and thrashing in bed, yet again victim to her own nightmares.

Not consciously aware, Belle did not notice how Gold burst into her room, flitting to her side with wary eyes and careful hands. He roused her from her sleep, swearing as he pulled the tangled blankets off her. Again, she was sweaty and frightened and out of breath, blindly grabbing onto his silk dress shirt, sobbing out and taking huge gulps of air in as if she couldn’t get enough into her hungry lungs. Bewildered by her grabby self, he petted her tangled russet hair quite awkwardly. “There, there,” he hushed, “I’m here. Nothing’s more scary than me.”

Hiccupping, Belle lifted her head from his neck and shoulder, involuntary tears staining her cheeks. Trying to calm her breathing, she wiped her face with an angry huff. Her heart quivered in her chest, but the imp’s scent of zest and bitter spices soothed her addled mind, mooring her to the bay of reality.

She kept clinging to him, and did not loosen her vise-like grip on him until her breathing returned to normal. With her nose buried in his neck, she sucked in another big breath of air, relishing the masculine scent of her owner. 

Yes, owner. For some strange reason, her mind somehow found deep comfort in that eerie fact. Gold would protect her because he had to. Like at the harbor, he had pulled her from death’s door at the nick of time. Until her “forever” was up, he would have to take care of her, too.

“See? You’re fine. Now stop crying,” he said mundanely. 

Belle nodded, feeling ridiculously silly. 

“-’m sorry, I—”

“Not many can control what forms their dreams take,” said the imp. “As long as you don’t break I’ll be pleased. Can’t have a half-baked PA.”

That made Belle laugh a little, and was calm as a sleepy cat as soon as her giggles stopped. She sniffled, and used the corner of a sheet to dab at her eyes. Truly, she hated crying. Tears were always hot and sticky on her cheeks, leaving red trails of sadness and pity in their wake. Crying had always been something Belle considered to be a useless habit. 

“Now that you’re to rights,” said the imp, “I’ll be leaving you to rest. I expect you on your feet tomorrow.” With a huff, he turned and made to leave her bedroom.

“Wait,” Belle wheezed, reaching out to grasp the hem of Gold’s leather coat. It was cool and smooth and heavy in her trembling hand, the leather creaking before the imp came to a full stop. 

“What is it now?”

With an earnest whisper, she said, “Stay, please… I don’t want to be alone.”

Gold turned to face her. Looming over her futon, he looked down at her like a disapproving parent. Belle would be a dead girl if looks could kill. With a firm moue, he ordered, “Let go of my coat.”

But she didn’t. She didn’t want to. 

Perhaps it was the fever, or perhaps it was the abrupt, crippling loneliness she felt. She dreaded going back to sleep, where those horrid drowning nightmares were sure to be waiting for her. Either way, she truly did not want to be alone. Belle tugged his coat. “Stay with me.”

“Gods, _no—_ “

“ _Please._ ”

With a deep sigh, the imp rubbed at his face, but eventually dropped down to his heels and glared at her over his crooked nose. “Until you fall asleep, then,” he said, and magicked the lights off.

She listened to him breath, in the dark. It was a quiet, ragged sound, and she could hardly hear it above the light wind blowing against her windows, the tick from her clock, or the glass-taping from the branches. Unlike her own breath, which was smooth and human (when not hyperventilating), Gold sounded more like a wheezing air vent; yet, he was quiet enough she could barely hear him, and he had longer gaps in between each breath than was mortally normal. Imps did not require oxygen, on a technical term. They technically didn’t have human forms, but like Gold, could transform into a humanoid appearance. This would not be the first time Belle wondered what he looked like in his true appereance. Either way, he had human understanding, like carrying out deals.

“What happened to the barter goods?”

“Go to sleep.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Then _be_ sleepy.”

Belle rolled over onto her face, where she could face the general direction of him. She could not see, but instinct told Belle he could. 

“Please tell me,” she asked in a gentle whisper. “It will be like a bedtime story.”

Gold was silent for a long moment. With each second ticking off from her little alarm clock, she began to think he wouldn’t indulge her. 

But, of course, he surprises her. “I took care of it. Tilly’s manning the shop until you’re back together again.”

“W-What happened to Mr. Johns?”

“You mean Killian Fucking Jones? He’s a con-artist, sweetheart. Million bloody new names at the ready. He was using a fisherman’s title for undercover on the duration of his stay, here. We’re lucky he didn’t kill you. All in all he’s taken care of—and _before_ you give yourself an aneurysm, no, I did not kill him.”

“Ah… What… what do we plan to do about money?”

“Hm?”

“You said… no money in Storybrooke…”

“I’ve thought of something, but you need to get better first.” Suddenly, Belle felt the blankets she’d kicked off being tucked around her, with graceful claws scraping against her satin gown, catching on the fine fabric, and then on the ratty blankets she owned. She could feel him closer than before, having scooted closer to the edge of her bed. “You need to sleep. Your body is tired. Let the medicine I gave you earlier run its course.” 

On cue, Belle let out a big yawn and nodded, rubbing her face into her pillow. Softly, her impish boss reached up to pat her on the shoulder.

Before she can realize it, she falls asleep without another thought.

~.~.~.~

Strange dreams filled with water and strangulation still plagued her, but the next time Belle opened her eyes it was to a brighter room than last night. Early morning sunlight shone in through her window, soft and gentle like the prettiest daybreak. 

However, it was not the light that roused her from sleep.

Something furry was tapping against her face. It was a delicate thing, swatting her cheek and chin every so often like the sway of a cat’s tail. She was deeply confused for several seconds, and didn’t look down for a few seconds in fear of what she might find.

To Belle’s surprise, Gold was with her.

Memories of last night swam into her mind, reminding Belle of her plea to him to stay. And somehow, someway, the imp had migrated to the upper left corner of her bed. He lay on his side facing her with his body contorted around her like some possessive house cat; his body did not touch her, however, except for his tail. Delightfully, she saw that it had made its reappearance at some point in the night, and the bony, scaly appendage was curled around her neck, nudging her face with the furry tip. It was quite warm against her exposed skin, though textured so differently from her own.

Wanting to see more of him and strengthened from a good night’s rest, Belle made an excruciatingly slow pushup to get a proper look at the imp.

He had not changed clothes to go to sleep beside her. _Hadn’t he said imps don’t need sleep? Or any demon, for that matter._ But her imp was dead-to-the-world, seemingly not breathing. His face buried in his arms, inches from her own head. Gold had taken his boots off, though, and were thrown across the room beside her door. His cloven feet twitched like a dog’s back paws in sleep. She half expected his ears to twitch.

Fascinated, she urged the muscles in her arms to raise her up, hoping to see more of him—

Gold flinched awake like a frightened pussycat. He scrambled off the futon so fast he gracelessly fell off, and landed with a loud bang. Belle, equally startled, leaned over the side of her bed to look down at the imp who lay sprawled on the floor. 

“Good morning, sir,” she croak, her voice laced with sleep. 

“Humph,” he grunted as he sat up. Scratching the back of his neck, he said, “About time you woke the hell up.”

“I could say the same, but I don’t know how long you’ve been asleep.”

The grayish-green skin around the corners of his eyes darkened. “Right, well, at least _I’m_ not the reckless one getting tossed to sea.”

“Now that’s not very nice, Mr. Gold.”

“I’m not very nice, dearie,” he growled softly, standing up. Rising, his tail vanished into invisibility. Before she could get another word in, the imp pressed the back of his head against her forehead. Flushing from the close proximity of him, she barely caught onto what he said next. “You’re better this morning, but you still have a low-grade temp. Stay in bed today.”

She did not resist the urge to smile at him. “I thought you wanted me on my feet?”

He glared. “Shut up and do as I say before I turn you into fish food... Oh, which reminds me! How does tuna for breakfast sound?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all have a happy Thanksgiving!
> 
> :D


	10. Grand Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle's on the road to recovery, and has a new idea for money income for Gold. Later, Belle looks into the book that's the reason behind her deal with her infamous imp..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous said:  
> How likely is it that Rumpelstiltskin's name is in Belle's $900 fairy tale book? Also, as a prompt idea, to help the town with its insolvency problems, maybe Rum gets Belle to do something to help attract tourists to the town, maybe a semi permanent renaissance fair called "The Enchanted Forest"? The town's going to keep getting into debt after all if new business and new dollars aren't introduced pretty consistently and Rum can't be the sole source of income
> 
> (Bit of a short chapter, but I felt it fitting to end it off where I did.)

“That’s salmon,” Belle remarked as she wrapped up her cotton robe’s tie around her waist.

“Tuna, salmon, cod, herring—all the same in the end.”

“No, they’re—“

“I’m _so_ sorry Miss Know-It-All, but it’s _fish,_ ” the imp whined bitterly, “get over yourself and eat it for Pete’s sake. I made lox out’ae it. It’s kosher.”

“Wasn’t worried, but okay.”

Though Gold had offered a fish breakfast, Belle was in too much discomfort that morning to eat anything. Her begrudging caretaker had been quite persistent in her eating something before handing over Motrin. That had not been enough, so she took another spoonful of his foul medication before passing out for a full five hours, only waking up once to call for the imp to chase away her nightmares.

Feeling a little better, she let the imp coax her out of bed for a bit to eat after a nice hot bath (this time, _without_ Gold’s help).

Now Belle sat at her kitchen bar with damp hair and dressed in nothing but her robe. She still felt shaky and ill, and her chest was tight as if water was still suffocating her from every inch of her body. Tilly had mentioned that she was lucky she only contracted mild pneumonia and not secondary drowning… Whatever that meant. Maybe Belle could do a little research latter on. 

Gold shot her a wicked shit-eating grin before hopping onto the stool beside hers, and slid a plate of food her way. It was a bowl of fish stew, packed with a various different vegetables and seasonings, with strips of chicken and noodles floating about in the zesty concoction. Besides that, there was a small plate of lox. She gave him an uncertain glance. “Isn’t this a little heavy?”

“That’s straight up Jewish Penicillin, dearie. And salmon is packed in fatty acids and omega-3s, not to mention an excellent anti-inflammatory. Just like the soup. Lemon, ginger, garlic—natural healing herbs...” Gold glared at her when she gave him a tiny amused smile. “Just shut up and eat what you can.”

Though her stomach churned at the thought, and a bit of bile began to burn the back of her throat, she knew she had to eat something before she starved herself to death. Gold had saved her once from the Reaper’s doorstep, and she wasn’t about to make him do it again.

With a nod, she picked a spoon and dug in.

To her surprise the soup was quite tasty, and though rich in flavor, it settled nicely in her queasy stomach. Belle ate half of the bowl’s contents, and murmured an appreciative compliment to her boss over the delicious meal.

“Where did all this food come from? We had only cookies and tea before.”

“Tilly went shopping yesterday, and your wolf friend stopped by this morning with a pot of this stuff,” he motioned to her bowl.

She nearly spat out a mouthful of soup. “ _What?_ ”

The imp uglily bared his crooked teeth. “Did you think I steal your medicine? Dr. Whale gave me a prescription for you, witless. And in small towns like this, as much as I loath them, tend to spread word fast. A couple of your nosy acquaintances came by too, but you, lazy girl, were resting.” 

Belle frowned. “I wish you had told me sooner. Did you let them in? Did my father stop by?”

“No, I didn’t let them in, because I won’t let them bring them and their nasty germs in contact with you and your ridiculously vulnerable state. What good are you to me, if sicker?” Gold tapped his claws on the countertop. “As for your father, yes, he did come by; along with your _twu luv_.”

On the verge of standing up, she exclaimed, “When? What happened?”

“Don’t strain yourself,” he threatened with daggers in his inhuman eyes, but did not move to do her bodily harm. “It was last night. Mr. Tall-&-Dense tried to push me aside when I refused their entry, but I did inform them that you were making a speedy recovery. You’re father wishes you well, and that his business is better.” 

Belle nodded. Good. That was good. 

Silence fell between them again, and Belle took another bite of her soup as she mulled over her internal thoughts. Gold had done so much already for her father, for her townspeople, for Storybrooke, and it wasn’t even a full two weeks yet since they formed their deal. In fact, Belle realized with a perk, they had met in this very spot.

She glanced at Gold, who was grumpily picking at a piece of lox. He looked so strange and so different than anything she had seen; even Ruby, when her friend hit puberty and had her first transformation (of which Belle was witness to), had been nowhere near as bizarre as this imp beside Belle now. Gold marred the environment of Storybrooke and Belle’s home; the apartment was small and cherry and looked lived-in, with modern furnishing and colorful design. But the imp was dressed in hard and dark leathers, and had hideous teeth and mottled swamp and glaucous green skin, seemingly textured with several pits and scales. She could not see his ears, for his mop of curly dark hair was too wild and unkempt, framing his head like a lion’s mane. His nose was bent and hawkish, and made it eyes seem too big and too round, giving him a deeply feral look. When he spoke, or smiled on occasion, the skin around his sharply featured face stretched and wrinkled. If he had been human, which she knew he was far, far from being, he would probably be in his middle years. In reality, he was hundreds of times her age. _Everyone’s age_.

How long would he continue to outlive every living soul he came across? To Belle, it seemed as if he would have a lonely life filled with loss.... Belle let out a broken sigh of regret, remembering their fight the morning of her last day in Gold’s shop. It was then she remembered his comments on having “surrogate children”, specifically regarding Mayor Mills. Where did that put this Tilly character she met earlier? What was Gold’s relationship with that girl? Tilly mentioned that she was his secretary in London, but also regarded Gold with nothing less than brusque affection.

How many people does Gold have a parental relationship with? How many people among those has he lost, and will continue to loose?

Her appetite gone, Belle managed to eat two pieces of lox before announcing she could eat no more. Pleased, she accepted a pill offered to her from Gold.

“Will I be back to work tomorrow?” Belle asked, leaving the bar to settle on the couch. The imp grunted as he daintily picked at her leftovers. 

With a piece of lox hanging out of his mouth, he answered with, “If you’re no longer wheezing like a well-seasoned smoker, I’ll toss in some paperwork for you to finish for me. For now, get more rest and stay put.” He picked up her bowl and drank the liquid contents. With a mouthful, he sniggered with a dribble of soup down the side of his mouth, “Why, are you exited to get back to slaving away for your devilishly handsome master?”

Belle managed not to blush at his teasing, and mentally gave herself kudos for not shying away from him. Instead, she smiled and said, “I was wondering, because I want to know what we plan on doing to bring money back into Storybrooke. You can’t barter for goods the rest of my peoples’ lives.”

“Humph. I can if I want to, girlie,” he groused, tossing the paper plate that once held lox away. He swaggered over to a pile of books on the table, nosily flicking through them. “But, I’ll admit I do have an idea or two. Are you plotting away in that little head of yours?”

“I think so,” Belle commented, gathering up the blanket on the couch. Her gaze shifted from the TV remote on the coffee table, to the rolling top desk in the corner. 

Inside of that desk was the whole reason she was in the mess with Gold.

“How about a Renaissance fair?”

Gold sniffed. “A _fair?_ ”

“I would be quite fun, and Granny can sell home-cooked food to visitors, people can make things and set up little shopping booths, the Rabbit Hole and have a whole 'tavern' theme style, hire a couple of jesters, and even a jousting tournament!” Belle looked at the imp excitedly, ideas running through her mind. “It would be a hit! Everyone loves those kinds of things.”

“Ah, right, the medieval ages. A _smashing_ time, really. Witch hunts, werewolf pelts at every good shoppe, blood-lettings, demon hearts on sale to cure all ailments, dragon-sized feasts with actual dragon meat, looser-dies winner-lives types of sports… Fabulous times. _Truly_ a remarkable period.”

Belle shook her head at him, who was sneering at her from across the room, and gave a little smile. His snark did not intimidate her.

The imp sighed and smacked the specific book he’d been skimming closed shut, and turned to her with a puckish smirk. Waggling a finger in her direction, he said, “Lay down and sleep or I won’t let you accompany me to dinner Friday!” 

~.~.~.~

Belle fell asleep again soon after her meal. Thankfully, this time she slept without nightmares, or if she did she had no memory.

She had been moved from the couch to her bed again, and had awoken in a dark room with the windows and curtains closed shut. The sun had begun to go down, and the clock read 4:37. 

“Mr. Gold?” she called out, pushing the blankets off her as she sat up. Her nightgown (she changed into it before sleeping) had bunched up around her hips, and she let it fall to her knees as she stood up. Curiously enough, she did not hear him come running, but saw her door was wide open, and music from the TV was barely audible. She followed the soft, colorful glow of her telly into the living room.

Tilly was snoozing on her couch, curled up in a semi-fetal position with one arm hanging off the edge and her mouth half open. Not-so-soft snores left her with each breath, with a slight, shiny trail of drool running down the side of her cheek. There was a bowl of popcorn on the floor, a few kernels littering the carpet. Tick-Tock was munching on some of the fallen pieces, and froze up once he spotted her. They stared for a few seconds before he returned to chewing, his tall ears twitching like his nose.

Smiling, Belle tiptoed over and threw the blanket on the couch’s arm over the blonde teen. “How long have you been here…?” Belle mused aloud, and looked around for clues. 

She found none, and assumed Gold had gotten Tilly to watch her while he did more errands. 

Belle sat down on her rolling-top desk chair to watch what Tilly had put on. _Alice in Wonderland_ was playing, and Belle smiled in amusement as the movie was on the Cheshire Cat’s part in the forest.

Her body was less sore tonight, but it was still difficult to take big breaths. Each cough that left her body felt like her insides were grinding together with rocks and blown up balloons. She also felt a little hungry, and contemplate snagging some popcorn from sleeping Tilly. In the end Belle decided against it, and turned to her desk.

Inside, the book that started the whole mess with the ogres was inside.

Guilt gnawed at her heart, and she remembered how badly she wanted that blasted fairytale book for herself. Papa had known she wanted it, and took out that ridiculously big loan to get it for her. She remembers quite vividly the day she was handed it, and it had been so exciting that she had barely looked inside of it, almost in fear of wrinkling it if she so much as opened the cover.

Quietly, in fear of waking Tilly, she opened the desk and flipped the little light inside on.

The cover was painted in gold, with age dulling the shine that no doubt adorned it once upon a time. And once upon a time was the title, ironically.

It was in German, however, and Belle didn’t speak German. She was slowly working on translating it… in the few, tension filled moments she had opened it.

Breathlessly, she pulled back the heavy leather cover and graced the eccentrically painted artwork inside with a careful fingertip.

There was Cinderella, Hansel and Gretel, Snow White, Red Ridding Hood, Beauty and The Beast, and other classic tales of yore. 

She dared to go farther than she’s ever dug into the book, exploring the pages she’s neglected to look. Of course, she was so jittery of looking at this ancient piece of art that she could barely stop herself from jumping up and running around. Thankfully her ailment prevented her from moving too fast.

 _‘Don’t strain yourself,’_ Gold’s voice echoed in her mind.

Belle was using ever inch of care to open each page, but suddenly, reaching the middle of the thick book, froze up like a deer caught in the headlight when she saw a certain page.

This story’s title, while unreadable to her, had a picture that was… definitely recognizable. Her jaw dropped in disbelief. 

The drawing on this specific tale was sited in a tower or dungeon of sorts, with piles of straw littering a stone floor. There was a woman sitting in a dress of rags on a small stool before a grand spinning wheel, holding out a small ring to a second figure. That figure, standing beside the woman in glorious and familiar leather was _Gold. Mr. Gold._

 _The Spinner_. 

He was physically different than how she saw him day-to-day, but his face was the same, save for the four, small jutting fangs and tusks out of his lips. He stood with his tail out and visible, and his cloven feet had no boots, heels with fetlock joins. She traced his visibly long, flexible tail, and the curly goat horns atop his head. He was every bit an imp in this painting. 

But every word in the tale had been viciously scrawled over in black ink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [SEND ME MORE PROMPTS!!!](https://shadowthecannibal.tumblr.com/ask)


	11. One Good Turn Deserves Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _geod23_ said:  
>  Mr Gold's PA Prompt: Gold purrs. When happy or something. Just imagine if Belle's curiosity finally won over and she started petting his ears or something! XD
> 
>  _Anonymous_ said:  
>  MG’sPA!Verse: Belle goes to return to Gold at the end of her day for evening tea, but confuses the tea up with some of Gold’s potions X’D. Kookies 4 u if its aphrodisiac!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this was late! RL is pretty... wild at the moment.
> 
> Due to this, I'm going on a short hiatus until things blow over. Of course, you may find me sh!tposting on tumblr, but that's about it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Friday approached Belle and her impish boss much faster than either anticipated. The road to her recovery was quickly coming to its completion as well, and Gold deemed her well enough to attend dinner at the Mills the day before. Tilly, for her part, had been invited as well, much to Belle’s delight. During her stick-days, Tilly had run into wee Henry and the two quickly bonded over roleplaying adventures in their imaginary fantasyland. The younger girl claims Henry is officially her nephew. Gold clearly tried to be indifferent about the whole matter, but Belle could see the light merit in his strange eyes.

Today Belle felt very much recovered, and aroused that morning with a smile on her face and energy in her step. Not one nightmare plagued her dreams last night. Pleased, she skipped into the living room and, once she saw Gold, impulsively kissed him on the cheek without so much as allowing him to protest.

Hissing, he backed away as if she’s bitten him. “ _Miss French!_ ” He spat with a threatening tone, but Belle knew he didn’t intend to ever hurt her. “Are you mad as well as daft, witless girl?”

Laughing, Belle took his hands in hers and held them tight. “I’m happy, Mr. Gold! It’s a very good morning.”

“Good morning to _you_ maybe, but for _me_ , I’ve got work to you—no, wait, I see. You’re better! Now _you’re_ the one that’s to get to work! Hehe, aye, I think I’ll have you organize my files at the shop. Manually!” He let out one of his manic giggles, pulling his hands from hers with a sharp tug as he flamboyantly skirted away, hands fidgeting midair.

She bit her bottom lip but nodded anyway. Gold had been a very careful nurse toward her during her sick days, going as far as sitting with her at night until she fell asleep. Belle felt a little sad, surprisingly, that their relationship had moved beyond simple terms of master and slave—employer and employee. Slowly, she began to recognize certain mannerisms from Gold, and seemed to know what he meant, even if he didn’t explicitly say it.

Just yesterday they were eating takeout that Tilly had brought over. The younger girl had fallen asleep against Gold’s leg, her head on his knee, for she’s been sitting between them on the floor before the couch. Belle was sure the imp would shove her off and tell her to go back home (Belle wasn’t sure where Tilly called _home_ , right now), but Gold only groused and said the teen had been _“worn out by chores a wee bairn could do in a jiff”_. 

But he made no move to wake Tilly up. 

Gold would never admit it, but Belle _knew_ that the imp cared for Tilly. 

Turning toward the kitchen to make tea, she states with hope in her voice, “So I can go out today?”

“Under my supervision,” he said darkly. “I don’t think I’ll have you go on barter collection again. I’ve contacted another associate of mine to do that for now.”

“Ah. Another youngster or someone like Mayor Mills?”

Gold grumbled as he sat at the breakfast bar, shooting her scowl. “Nosy as ever, Miss French.” 

“Just asking,” she said with a contented sigh, flittering about the kitchen as she made tea and breakfast. 

“You can start by _not_ asking!”

“Where’s the meaning in that?” she asked, putting the kettle on to heat. “If I’m not going to get as close to anyone except you, can’t I at least know you?”

He gave a rueful flick of his fingers. “Want to know the beast’s weaknesses, eh?” The imp waggled a finger in her direction, the leather of his heavy coat creaking. 

“You’re not that much of a beast. Beasts don’t dote on children the way you do.”

“I don’t— _humph!_ ”

The imp went silent for a long moment. Belle believed him to be done with her. Sighing, she kept on making their morning tea, going as far as to get the tea cookies and bread for the toaster. Just as she was putting some slices in, Gold spoke up.

“I had a son.”

She halted. Carefully, she turned her head around to look at him. He would not meet her eyes, instead choosing to stare at his folded hands.

“What happened to him?”

"I lost him."

"I'm sorry."

He looked away, and did not respond.

~.~.~.~

After morning tea and a quick shower, Belle hopped into a deliciously warm white turtleneck with a black flare skirt. She hopped into some black tights and a fuzzy pink coat, and met Gold at the door with a bright smile. He sneered at her, but ushered her out of the flat with a hand on the small of her back.

“My associate will be coming sometime this afternoon,” he explained, as they jogged down the steps. Gold was a fast walker, and it brought Belle back to the night they first met. “If he comes to the shop and I’m not there, just call my name.”

“Right.”

“Meanwhile I want you to organize the files in the backroom alphabetically.”

“Oh, Mr. Gold, come on—“

“No buts!” he waggled a claw in her face. “You’ve been slacking your work off all week, dearie, and it’s time to make it up!”

~.~.~.~

Gold walked Belle to the pawnshop and left her there with strict orders. In the back room, the worktable was piled high with files. Godforsaken files. So, so many of them…

She groaned, not bothering to suppress the sound—she hoped that bastard could hear her!

Work was tedious, but she settled at the table and spread out the paper mountain before her, feeling as if she was conquering Mt. Everest. One by one, she slowly forms separate piles organized by last names, all of which consisted of accounts of plots of land and places of business, not to mention homes as well. Time ticked by until she had about half ways work done, and she sat back in her chair with a loud sigh. No one had come in during her time here, and her head was beginning to hurt. Maybe she needed some water and a quick break.

Whether it was for Gold’s future benefit or for Tilly’s, a mini fridge had been set up in the far back corner. It looked simple enough, small and black. Thirst driving her on, she got up and moved toward it. 

The fridge was unsually hard to open, but she managed it with a loud “pop!” as the door pulled open, startling Belle just a bit. A little bewildered, she knelt down and looked inside. Cool air wrapped around her in wisps of fog, caressing her pale skin and coaxing gooseflesh from her. 

There was no light inside, but it was filled with… items. Tiny vials, bottles, glowing glass contains that were filled with colorful liquids that sparkled in the light she’d let in. They were all different colors, some a dark murky concoction, others vibrant potions that looked like liquid embers. 

So, this was where Gold kept some of his magic. Belle didn’t feel too shocked, but curiosity gripped her in a near brutal way. Before Gold came to town, she had seen so little magic that it was next to being non-existent in Storybrooke. Of course, she’d seen pictures and things had been on the TV, but to see it right before her very eyes was a whole different matter.

Tentatively, she reached out and picked up a bottle that glowed a soft violent. It sparked inside with little explosions of deep crimson and light azure. The potion was corked, the spout wrapped in old cloth, kept tight with rubber bands. What on earth did it do? Why did Gold need potions here? Belle prayed he wasn’t making shady deals with the townspeople. 

She gave the potion a very small shake, and watched with wide eyes as it glowed brighter, even as she wrapped her hand around the circular base of the glass bottle.

Suddenly, the bell above the front door in the main shop went off, filling the pawnshop with a cheerful ring. It startled Belle out of her musing; a peculiar wave of guilt touched her heart, but it was replaced with horror as the potion slipped from her hand and went crashing onto the floor.

 _Shit!_ Belle swore under her breath, shutting the fridge and scrambling to stand. The liquid stained her skirt and legs, not to mention her shoes, in splatters, and through her panic she put her hand over the mess. The glass cut her finger in a small pinprick.

Hissing, but knowing it wasn’t a bad cut, she turned away and chose to fly to the front room instead. Hopefully it wasn’t Gold. She knew better than to snoop, she really did, and although they were close to being chummy with each other during the past week, random instinct told her to be scared if the imp found out she’d been in his potion fridge. However, if it was Gold, he could prevent whatever magic was in that bottle from affecting her. She’d pricked her finger, no doubt getting some of that potion in the cut.

“Hello?” a man’s voice called out, and Belle sighed in a wave of mixed feelings. Stepping under the curtain that separated the back room from the front, she instantly laid eyes on the newcomer.

It was a stranger, taller than her and with fairly common features. A rough stubble scattered across his face, and his hair was frumpy at best. Scratching his head, he met her eyes and gave a lopsided smile. “Hey, uh, is Gold in?”

“Mr. Gold? Oh, no, not at the moment—are you his associate?”

“Associate?” the man echoed, confusion etching his face before it broke out into a wide smile, and a hearty laugh left him. “I’m a, uh—he’s the closest bloody thing I have to an old man, to say it blunt. So yeah. I guess so. I owed him a favor. Name’s Neal.”

“Belle,” she said with a smile, but her mind raced. _Gold raised_ _another_ child? How many foster kids does that imp have? “Well, Mr. Gold’s out on rounds with Tilly.”

“Ah. I’ll just wait then. You work for him?”

“In a way,” she laughed awkwardly.

His face fell.

“In what way?” He stepped closer to her, crossing his arms. “Did he force you into a deal with him?”

“What? No, Mr. Gold never—!”

“Never did what, dearie?” Mocked Mr. Gold him-bloody-self, stepping out from behind Belle as if he’d always been there. Belle wanted to yelp in surprise, but miraculously kept herself under control. She’s suffered through his surprise appearances before, and she can do it again.

The man narrowed his eyes in suspicion, and looked back and forth between him and Belle. Arrested, she watched raptly as Neal approached the imp without an ounce of fear. Gold opened his mouth to speak, but all he let out was a strangled _squeak_ as he was gathered into a fierce, near angry hug. “A whole year without so much as a ‘hi’ and you suddenly ask me to drag my ass down here?” 

“ _Cassidy,_ ” hissed the imp with a strained face, momentarily immobile as he was squeezed around his arms and waist. 

“And who’s the eye candy here, old man? New shop girl?”

“Put me the fuck down before I turn you into a toad!”

“Did you blackmail her into this? She’s too cute and too young to be your slave, Papa.”

“ _Hissssss!_ ”

Abruptly, Neal let go of her boss. He landed gracefully, but brushed off his heavy scaled coat as if he meant to remove dirt from his being. Glaring at the young man, he spat, “Do that again and I won’t hesitate to do good on my promise.”

“Whatever. What’s up with her?” he asked, nudging his chin in her direction. His eyes shifted to her. “You’re not here against your will, are you?”

“No, she’s not,” Gold groused. “She’s not a ‘shop girl’, she’s my girl Friday, so to speak, so take your eyes off her, she’s busy with work for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. What’d ya want?”

“A job offer.” Gold handed Neal a file in which he produced from thin air. “Go to Regina’s when you’re done.”

Unfazed, Neal nodded and took the file with a flick of his wrist—a move that reminded Belle a little too much of Gold. “Sure thing, old man. Do I get to be pay—“

“Ten.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t that?””

“Thirty.”

“Oh, you must be bluffing. Haha!”

He grumbled. “Forty-five.”

“ _Cheapskate,_ ” Neal coughed into his fist.

“Sixty and that’s final.”

“I’m on my way!” He said, and turned and left without another word.

The second the door closed, Gold spun around and pinned her with blazing eyes—though his face remained passive. “What did you do?”

“What?”

“What. Did. You. Do.”

“I—“

“Take your hands from behind your back, Miss French.”

“I’m not—“ Yet she was. Guility, she brought her hands forward, feeling like a child getting caught with her hand in the cookie jar. By doing this, she let the imp see the tiny paper-cut sized cut on her pointer finger. Tsking, he came forward and grasp her wrist—

She gasped.

His touch felt hot. Too hot. A thousand tiny electroshocks stung her hand, and in her shock she wrenched her hand from his. In that moment, her eyes met his, and all she could think was _it’s too much!_

Gold let his hand hang in the air, pinning her with a slightly confused, concern look. He shook it off, though, and pushed past her to go into the back. 

“What business do you have snooping?” he said, voice solemn. Belle winced, having expected as much, and ruefully stepped up behind him. Gold crouched over the broken mess from the potion, not bothering to look at her. His shoulders, though well hidden beneath his coat, were visibly held up and tense.

“Why do you have poisons here? I’m pretty sure we settled on non-magical business here. Besides the ogres.”

“I _am_ magic, witless. Best remember that. Now, be truthful. Did any of it touch you?”

“I cut my finger a bit,” she admitted.

“Go wash your hands immediately.”

Nodding, she did as he bided.

“What is it?” she asked, leaving the tiny restroom’s door open to speak to him still. She heard him shuffle about before answering.

“A potion you have no business with.”

“Well, yes, but what _is_ it?”

“An aphrodisiac.”

“A—what?!” Belle yelped, shutting the water off and sweeping back into the room. “Oh my God, am I—“

“Judging by how small your cut is,” he began, allowing her to come to him before lifting her hand up. Indeed, the cut was very small. “It should not affect you too badly. If anything, you may feel a little feverish.”

That was exactly how Belle was beginning to feel—especially in Gold’s presence.

“What—How can I go to the dinner—?“

“That’s in a few good hours,” he said in his shrill tone, dropping her hand with a shrug. “Continue working, you should be fine.”

“But—“

“Back to work, Miss French, before I send you out for a shaming!” 

~.~.~.~

Fifteen minutes later, Belle was completely out of sorts.

Her head was foggy with a strange feverish dream, and images confusing and slightly—arousing flashed in her mind’s eye. A bead of sweat trickled down the nape of her neck, of which she was too much aware of.

Turning a page in one of the files, she chewed her lip and pressed her legs together. A steady burn had built up in her lower stomach, and a throb formed upon her womanhood that beat in time with her heartbeat.

Gold, that stupid imp, had left for a moment to give a job for TIlly (Belle wasn't sure what the girl was doing now) before returning to her. He complained awhile about her lack of organization skills (her file piles was a bit messy) before going to mingle around the shop, tinkering on his magpie treasures. He didn’t try speaking to her, and she wasn’t about to start a conversation with him herself, but every time he breathed she wanted to _slap_ him.

And kiss him.

Flushing for the one hundredth time since she sat down, she tore her eyes away from the imp’s leather clad ass to focus on her work. She wanted to prove to Gold that she could do this, that she wasn't just some silly little librarian. In a way, the thought of having him proud of her filled her chest with something warm and fuzzy, as if butterflies had taken a migration down her throat and into her tummy. All she needed to do what focus...

And it wasn’t working.

Every time Gold past her, she held her breath and felt her entire body tense up. An electrifying shiver ran down her spine when his eyes would meet her own. She noticed his every move like some predator, but felt as vulnerable around him like a tiny baby mouse. If this wasn't bad enough, thoughts far from appropriate haunted her brain. She wondered what Gold looked like without his silk shirts and vests. What would his tail feel like? What did he feel like in general? What did he look like in his trousers?

_Stop thinking!!!_

“I... I think I need to go home,” she said, fighting the urge to look at him as he paused in his chore. 

“And why’s that?”

“I—“ Belle pushed the chair back in a loud screech of wood rubbing against wood, and shoot up like a soldier. “I feel funny.”

“Your fault for getting into my things,” he deadpanned, waltzing over. His body movements were lax, yet his facial expressions were tight. “What do—What _are_ you doing?”

Belle had no idea.

Her hands had, strangely, gone to the imp’s head, and her fingers entwined themselves with his hair. His hair was not terribly soft, but it felt delicious running through her fingers. Plus, this way she could see his ears, and discovered them to have tiny points at the tips, and the skin there and around his neck was thinner and colored a softer grayish green, while the rest of him was darker, almost scale-like, and shined gold. Without much control over her movement, she began to scratch behind his ears, attempting to coax him closer to her. Gold had such stunning eyes—she wanted to see them closer. At this, Gold let out a strangled sound she had never heard him make before... Was he— _humming? **Purring!?**_

“Miss French!” he suddenly hissed, and pulled away like a frightened rabbit, glaring daggers as he spun away from her. He turned to a shelf, purposfully keeping his back to her--and, she noticed, his tail was visible and it wiggled wildly. “That was completely inappropriate! What even goes on in that head of yours—“ he groaned in a ragged voice. “Fine. Go home. I can’t really keep on smelling your hormones rage either, dearie, so scat and go get ready for dinner... J-Just get out of my shop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEND PROMPTS TO DECIDE WHAT HAPPENS AT THE MILLS' DINNER PARTY
> 
> WHO'S GONNA BE THERE???
> 
> WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN???
> 
> IS BELLE GONNA GET OVER THE AROSAL POTION????
> 
> YOU DECIDE! YOU PROMPT!


End file.
